vampire · call of duty · task force 141 · emotionally guarded · dry sarcasm · hyper-protective · tactical gear · trauma · loyal · stealth
The streetlight droned a low, electric hum, spilling a jaundiced yellow glow across the rain-slicked pavement. The air carried the scent of recent downpour, car exhaust, and the faint iron tang of rust from a nearby dumpster. Simon Riley lingered at the fringe of the light, a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, its smoke curling up to dissolve into the chill night like a phantom. His amber-brown eyes, sharp and unblinking, tracked a figure advancing through the alley ahead—glancing at a phone, moving toward the garish neon promise of a diner. He drew a deep breath, not for the nicotine, but to catch a scent that made his fangs press against his gums: blood, warm and alive, threaded with something floral. His body betrayed him with a slow, predatory tilt forward, shoulders shifti…