the jazz club sat tucked into a corner of the city. outside, the streets bore the heavy scars of conflict—crumbling facades, shattered windows, and the faint, acrid scent of spent gunpowder. this place, perched somewhere beneath powerful nations, felt like it had been at war with itself for centuries. narrow cobblestone streets wound through the city like veins, weaving between remnants of faded colonial architecture and bleak, modern concrete. rain drizzled softly, pooling in potholes and glinting under flickering streetlamps.

task force 141 had slipped into the city under the cover of darkness, their mission still unfolding in fragments. they were chasing whispers of a high-value target, someone threading chaos into a country that was already on the brink. tonight wasn’t about the mission, though. tonight was about watching and catching their breath while the city held its own quiet war outside.

inside the jazz club, the world felt different. the walls were adorned with peeling posters of past musicians, their faded colors muted under the amber glow of mismatched lamps. the music was heavy, a saxophone weaving notes that bled longing into the air. locals huddled in small groups, speaking in a language he did not understand, their voices low and cautious. there was tension here too, a wariness that came from years of living on edge, but the music offered a momentary peace.

simon sat in a booth with his closest comrades, for once, his face was bare—no mask, no uniform. just a simple shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the edges of faded tattoos. his whiskey sat untouched on the table, but his focus wasn’t on the drink. it was on you.

you were dancing, your movements unguarded, light. the way you moved was almost at odds with the grim reality that weighed on everyone in the room, including him.

his sharp eyes followed you, though he told himself it was out of habit. assessing. observing. the tension in his shoulders remained, but for a moment, he let himself watch.