2025-03-18, 01:00 PM - Word count: 582
@louis
Mobek didn’t care about the cameras. He didn’t care about the reporters the security or the officials screaming for order. All he cared about was the man in front of him Louis Ashworth Sydney City’s golden boy standing there with that smug grin like he was untouchable.
The chemicals in his bloodstream turned his vision into a tunnel. The noise of the stadium blurred into a distant hum. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Thought was too slow. Instinct took over.
He lunged.
Ashworth barely had time to flinch before Mobek’s hand wrapped around his throat shoving him backward. His teammates surged forward but he didn’t let go. Ashworth’s eyes widened hands scrambling at Mobek’s wrist mouth opening to protest but no words came out.
Security swarmed around them arms grabbing at Mobek but he barely felt them. His heartbeat pounded like a war drum drowning out everything else. His breath was heavy his vision flickering between reality and something else something deeper something unshackled.
Someone wrenched at his arm but his grip stayed tight. He wanted to see the fear in Ashworth’s eyes wanted him to understand this was not a game this was not football this was war.
A fist collided with his ribs. A boot clipped his shin. More hands pulled more voices shouted. His body jerked backward but his mind remained locked on the moment the way Ashworth’s face twisted the way the veins in his forehead bulged the way he gasped for air.
Mobek felt the ground rush toward him but he never hit it. He was being carried dragged torn away from his prey. His muscles strained against unseen restraints his body still vibrating with the force of the substances running through his veins. His jaw clenched until he tasted blood.
He blinked once twice and the world blurred. The lights above the tunnel seared his vision. The voices around him melted into an indistinct roar. He wasn’t sure if they were screaming at him or about him. None of it mattered.
The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was Ashworth coughing clutching his throat staggering backward with his teammates rushing to his side.
Mobek sat in the cold concrete hallway outside the locker room, his back against the wall, arms resting on his knees. His head tilted back, eyes staring at the flickering fluorescent light above. His body was still thrumming, nerves sparking, muscles twitching. The chemicals hadn’t worn off. They wouldn’t for a while.
Shouts echoed from down the hall. Officials arguing. Security pacing. Someone on the phone, voice sharp, urgent. Istanbul’s coach had been in and out, yelling something about fines, suspensions, disgrace. Mobek barely registered it. His ears rang. His breath was slow and even, the rush settling into a cold, focused clarity.
A shadow loomed over him. Predrag Dobrić stood there arms crossed eyes filled with something between concern and admiration.
"They’re saying you’ll get a ban," Dobrić muttered.
Mobek didn’t answer. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and lit one. The first inhale burned. The second steadied him.
Dobrić(@TooDear ) sighed. "Ashworth is lucky they pulled you off him."
Mobek exhaled a long stream of smoke. His eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"Lucky?" He smirked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. "I wasn’t even trying."
Mobek didn’t care about the cameras. He didn’t care about the reporters the security or the officials screaming for order. All he cared about was the man in front of him Louis Ashworth Sydney City’s golden boy standing there with that smug grin like he was untouchable.
The chemicals in his bloodstream turned his vision into a tunnel. The noise of the stadium blurred into a distant hum. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Thought was too slow. Instinct took over.
He lunged.
Ashworth barely had time to flinch before Mobek’s hand wrapped around his throat shoving him backward. His teammates surged forward but he didn’t let go. Ashworth’s eyes widened hands scrambling at Mobek’s wrist mouth opening to protest but no words came out.
Security swarmed around them arms grabbing at Mobek but he barely felt them. His heartbeat pounded like a war drum drowning out everything else. His breath was heavy his vision flickering between reality and something else something deeper something unshackled.
Someone wrenched at his arm but his grip stayed tight. He wanted to see the fear in Ashworth’s eyes wanted him to understand this was not a game this was not football this was war.
A fist collided with his ribs. A boot clipped his shin. More hands pulled more voices shouted. His body jerked backward but his mind remained locked on the moment the way Ashworth’s face twisted the way the veins in his forehead bulged the way he gasped for air.
Mobek felt the ground rush toward him but he never hit it. He was being carried dragged torn away from his prey. His muscles strained against unseen restraints his body still vibrating with the force of the substances running through his veins. His jaw clenched until he tasted blood.
He blinked once twice and the world blurred. The lights above the tunnel seared his vision. The voices around him melted into an indistinct roar. He wasn’t sure if they were screaming at him or about him. None of it mattered.
The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was Ashworth coughing clutching his throat staggering backward with his teammates rushing to his side.
Mobek sat in the cold concrete hallway outside the locker room, his back against the wall, arms resting on his knees. His head tilted back, eyes staring at the flickering fluorescent light above. His body was still thrumming, nerves sparking, muscles twitching. The chemicals hadn’t worn off. They wouldn’t for a while.
Shouts echoed from down the hall. Officials arguing. Security pacing. Someone on the phone, voice sharp, urgent. Istanbul’s coach had been in and out, yelling something about fines, suspensions, disgrace. Mobek barely registered it. His ears rang. His breath was slow and even, the rush settling into a cold, focused clarity.
A shadow loomed over him. Predrag Dobrić stood there arms crossed eyes filled with something between concern and admiration.
"They’re saying you’ll get a ban," Dobrić muttered.
Mobek didn’t answer. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and lit one. The first inhale burned. The second steadied him.
Dobrić(@TooDear ) sighed. "Ashworth is lucky they pulled you off him."
Mobek exhaled a long stream of smoke. His eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"Lucky?" He smirked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. "I wasn’t even trying."
