Who do you trust or no one at all?

✦ ask. ✧ memes. ✦ carrd. ✧

RULES

✯ IC =/= OOC. Don’t godmode. ✯ ✯ Selective & semi-active due to life. ✯ ✯ Will happily write with crosscanon & OCs. ✯ ✯ Do not assume to know muse & call him Evan. ✯ ✯ Please cut your posts & tag all standard triggers. ✯ ✯ I use small text/icons. You use whatever you want. ✯ ✯ No underage, no smut with minors. (mun is 21+). ✯ ✯ Time taken to reply may vary. Do not pressure. ✯ ✯ If I reply with a para; do not give me a line. ✯ ✯ If drama is started; you will be blocked. ✯ ✯ PM me if you have any questions. ✯

@fortitudina needed help : ❝ For as long as I can remember, I just wanted to do what was right. ❞ ( from Anastasiya )

‘I would say we do.’

He felt a deep sense of pride working for L and Strix, a company that truly embodied a commitment to the greater good. ( They were an organisation that understood the importance of integrity; no one was seen as expendable. Each employee was treated with unwavering respect, fostering a sense of camaraderie among the team. ) Together, they strived to make the world a better place, tackling daunting challenges head-on.

In Evan’s eyes, Anastasiya was a beacon of righteousness. She consistently chose to do what was right, even when the path was fraught with difficulties. Each day, she and her colleagues engaged in a relentless battle for justice and freedom, dedicated to rooting out the bad seeds that threatened the well-being of the innocent. This mission resonated deeply with Evan; he had long been a lone warrior fighting for the defenceless, motivated by a profound sense of duty.

He glanced over at Anastasiya, sending a warm smile her way and nodding in agreement with her ideals. Although he was not one to socialise frequently, especially outside of their missions, he appreciated the authenticity in her words. ( It was evident that her intentions were pure, driven by a desire to make amends for the painful actions she and others had been compelled to undertake due to the insidious influence of corrupt groups. ) His quiet demeanour often kept him at the periphery of social interactions, but he felt a kinship with these individuals who shared a common goal: to restore hope and protect those unable to defend themselves.

The line stayed quiet, the kind of silence that lasted long enough to make most people second-guess themselves. But Evan had learned a long time ago that silence was a tool. It forced people to sit with their decision, to feel the weight of it. ( He didn’t rush to fill the space, didn’t soften the edges. He let the stillness hang until it revealed the truth he was listening for. ) Some callers cracked under it. Others hung up, too frightened of what it meant to step into his world. This one didn’t. She held the silence with him, her breathing ragged but steady, her voice reduced to a single word. Yes. Not panicked. Not impulsive. Resigned, but sure.

His hand tightened around the RoamZone, thumb running along the scuffed plastic casing. With his other hand, he pushed away the untouched glass on the counter, the faint click of it settling against wood the only sound in the room besides his breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, deliberate, each syllable measured and heavy. ‘Then you have it. My help.’ The words weren’t rushed. They carried significance because he meant them. There was no performance, no false reassurance. Just a promise made carefully, the kind that couldn’t be broken once it was given.

‘I don’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer,’ he continued, the rhythm of his voice steady, patient. ‘You tell me what you need, and if it’s something I can do, I will.’ He paused then, not because he was uncertain, but because pauses mattered. His silences were intentional, as much a part of his communication as the words themselves. ( They made people think. ) They made them realise the gravity of what they were asking. ‘But you need to understand something before you go on. I’m not a friend. I’m not a hero. I don’t make promises I can’t keep. And I don’t always save everyone.’

The muscles in his jaw flexed as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the city skyline outside his window though he wasn’t really seeing it. He could hear her breathing on the line, and in it he caught pieces of himself — the weight of loss, the anger buried under control, the stubborn will to keep moving forward when the world had already taken too much. His voice hardened, lower now, not unkind but uncompromising. ‘What I can promise is this. If I take this on, I don’t stop until it’s finished. Whoever you’re up against, whatever holds you here now — I will make sure they feel it. They’ll learn what it means to be hunted.’

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, his entire focus narrowed to the call. The phone was small and cheap, but it was his lifeline — the one link between him and people like her, the ones who had nowhere else to turn. ( He drew in a breath and let the silence stretch once more, but this time it wasn’t a test. It was space. ) A deliberate opening, a way of saying he was listening without having to repeat it. When he finally spoke again, his voice was steady, clipped, leaving no room for doubt. ‘So start at the beginning. Tell me who you’ve lost. Tell me who you’re looking for. And tell me why you think you can’t do it alone.’ The quiet that followed wasn’t empty. It was an invitation. A weight balanced between them, waiting for her to decide if she was ready to place it in his hands. Evan didn’t move, didn’t speak again. He simply waited, as still and patient as stone, prepared to carry whatever she gave him.

Evan’s ritual with vodka isn’t just about the drink. It’s a tether.

Jack introduced it to him when he was barely more than a boy — a way to slow down, to mark the end of a day, to separate the mission from the man. Always vodka distilled seven times. Never flavoured. Never mixed. Pure.

For Evan, the ritual is survival. He pours it the same way every night: glass chilled, measured to the ounce, set down on the counter with precise alignment. He drinks it slowly, never more than one or two. It’s not about intoxication — it’s about control. The act itself is the point, not the effect.

On the rare nights when he skips it, it’s usually because he’s spiralling. Too many ghosts. Too much weight. He avoids the ritual because he knows he’ll taste blood in the glass instead of clarity.

But when someone else is there — Joey dropping by, Peter running through his penthouse, even a rare ally sitting across the counter — he still performs the ritual. Quieter, more guarded, but steady. It’s his way of proving, to himself and to anyone watching, that he’s still anchored. That no matter what the world made him, he hasn’t lost the man Jack tried to raise.

fortitudina needed help : ❝ Still seeing triple here. Not good at all. ❞ ( from Cillian. )

‘Hey, don’t worry I’ve got you.’

In the unforgiving nature of their profession, injuries were a commonplace hazard—an unfortunate side effect of the perilous situations they often found themselves in. Whether they were braving the biting cold atop a desolate rooftop or engaging in fierce hand-to-hand combat with adversaries, the risk was ever-present. ( Today had proven to be no exception. ) Evan found himself reflecting on the chaotic events that had just transpired; they had been pursued relentlessly in a high-speed chase, adrenaline surging through his veins, when an out-of-control vehicle had crashed into them, sending their car careening off the road.

The impact had come suddenly, and the culprit car had sped away without a second thought, leaving the two men in disarray. ( Evan’s concern quickly shifted to his partner, Cillian, whose pained groans indicated that he had sustained a concussion. ) As Evan observed him, Cillian appeared dazed, the pallor of his skin contrasting sharply with the darkening bruise that was already forming on his temple. Despite the gravity of the situation, Evan found himself reasonably composed. He had already radioed in their urgent need for backup; the medical team was on its way, and while they waited, Evan knew he had to remain with Cillian. He crouched beside him, attempting to assess his partner’s condition. ( The head injury, while alarming, seemed to be less severe than it could have been—at least, that was his initial assessment. ) But Evan reminded himself that appearances could be deceptive; he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Better safe than sorry, he thought as he kept a watchful eye on Cillian, ready to manage any further developments until help arrived.

‘Stay awake, yeah?’

fortitudina needed help : ❝ We can’t afford to wait that long. ❞ ( from Uinseann )

‘Damn.’ 

If there was one thing Evan abhorred, it was the feeling of plans unravelling before his eyes. Ever since he was a child, he had been drilled on the importance of preparation and the necessity to adapt when the unexpected happened. ( Yet, even with that knowledge swirling in his mind, the notion of altering his approach mid-mission made his skin prickle with discomfort. ) However, when innocent lives teetered on the brink of danger, hesitation became a luxury he could not afford. 

With a sharp exhale that felt like a release of all his tension, he reluctantly set aside his sniper rifle, a tool of precision that had always provided him a sense of control. ( In its place, he took up a standard pistol, its cool grip a stark reminder of the urgency of the moment. ) He glanced across the room, locking eyes with Uinseann, who stood poised on the opposite side of the building.

As they exchanged silent communication, Evan could see the understanding in Uinseann’s gaze — both of them had assessed the precarious situation before them. ( Time was running out, and if they didn’t act swiftly, their target would slip through their fingers with the explosives, unleashing chaos that could claim countless lives. ) The air was thick with tension, and Evan felt the weight of their mission pressing down on him as he prepared to move.

‘Right, yeah, going in.’

Introduction -

Name: Evan Smoak.

Age: Verse dependent. 

Your favourite picture of your muse’s fc:

Questions -

What would be their twitter name? What sorts of tweets would they tweet?   Twitter name: @ thenowhereman ;  What he would tweet about:  : Minimal. Direct. Rare. Warnings, patterns he’s noticed, coded phrases no one but the intended reader would understand. Occasionally, something startlingly ordinary — a view from his window, a book left on the counter, silence between words.

What’s their favourite genre of movies? Of music?Movies:  He doesn’t indulge often, but when he does, he prefers sharp, precise thrillers — stories that mirror his own life, though he’d never admit it. Sometimes old black-and-white classics, because they remind him of Jack.

Music:  Evan appreciates classical. Clean, structured. Strings especially — order carved from chaos.

What’s on their top queue on Netflix? Supernatural, Mindhunter, Breaking Bad. He’s drawn to shows about discipline, control, and people who live outside the law.

What’s their favourite scent? Do they smell like that?Favourite: Clean vodka, distilled seven times. Gun oil. Fresh air after a run at dawn. As for him? Subtle. Crisp soap. A trace of disinfectant that never quite leaves. Coffee. Leather from jackets and boots worn in the field. Beneath it all — steel and silence.

Apple or Android? Android. More secure. Easier to modify. Less predictable.

Favourite Season? Least favourite season?   Favourite: Winter. Cold, quiet, ordered. Least Favourite: Summer. Heat makes the city restless. Noise rises with the temperature.

Virginity or no virginity? No virginity. But intimacy is rare, deliberate, and never casual. For Evan, it’s trust first, closeness second.

Describe their morning routine. Do they wake up early or sleep in? Do they press the snooze button a bunch of times or do they immediately get up?   Evan rises before dawn. He showers, cleans his space, meditates, trains. He doesn’t press snooze — he doesn’t need alarms. The only times he’s ever “slept in” are when his body is recovering from injury. Discipline defines him.

If they were to be compared to a canon character, who would that be? Jason Bourne. Jack Reacher. Ghosts trained by systems, remade into something dangerous, but still reaching for humanity.

Finish this sentence, muse: What would ___ do? What would Jack do? Always Jack. His voice is still there. The rules. The code. When Evan doubts himself, he hears Jack’s answer before his own.