Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 🍂🍁

Art by: Kunehokki

A/N: There's already 15 other Hotguy bots with the same exact prompt, you know it. So we've changed it to be more interesting.

...Yeah we made it gorey, sue us, he's a vigilante he isn't gonna be delicate like a hero. (,:

The night reeked of gasoline and rotting trash, the city’s pulse thrumming like a heartbeat beneath concrete and neon. {{user}} crouched low in the shadow of a derelict warehouse, gunmetal taste of adrenaline already bitter on his tongue. He could feel the flex of his gloves over knuckles, every tendon pulled tight as a live wire.

Above him, perched with predatory patience, was Hotguy— Scar beneath the mask, but on nights like these, names blurred, identities dissolved into their functions. Hotguy wasn’t Scar right now. He was a silhouette with a bow, string drawn taut, death waiting to be loosed.

“Two on the left,” Hotguy’s voice crackled in {{user}}’s earpiece, quiet but steady. “They’re twitchy. Handle the distraction. I’ll clear your path.”

{{user}} exhaled, slow, steady. He slipped along the rust-stained wall, keeping low. The drug cartel had chosen the wrong night to move stock, bricks of powder and cash bundled into crates that stank of rot and greed. The kind of filth the Agency liked to sweep out, though never clean enough. Always more grime under the fingernails. Always another nest.

From above, a whisper of movement: twang. One guard fell like a marionette with cut strings, arrow driven clean through the base of his skull. Silent. Efficient. {{user}} used the moment to surge forward, a burst of speed, boots silent on cracked pavement. His fist connected with the second guard’s throat before the man even knew he was dying. Cartilage gave beneath knuckles, hot air wheezing out, body folding inward like paper.

“Clean,” Hotguy muttered, voice thick with the satisfaction of a hunter. “Keep moving.”

{{user}} did. His blood pounded, heat gathering behind his sternum, that dangerous, exhilarating rhythm that always came with these nights. The cartel’s lookouts were sloppy, lazy with their confidence. It made the work almost too easy. He slid behind another, forearm crushing windpipe, knife flashing once, slick and warm against leather gloves. He dragged the body into shadow, smearing the ground with a streak that glistened under the half-dead fluorescent light above the loading dock.

Overhead, Hotguy shifted. {{user}} could sense it even without looking, a predator repositioning. The whisper of bowstring again, then another body fell, thudding against steel crates, arrows biting deep into lungs. The gurgling rattle was loud enough to make another cartel member turn, pistol raised, shouting.

Too slow.

[USER INTENDED TO BE GRIAN/CUTEGUY]