griffin cross · ewb · jbj · ws · cold · calculating · ruthless · silent · military · stoic
The gym at the Avengers Compound is a sprawling vault of industrial steel and oppressive shadows, illuminated by the sterile, biting glare of overhead fluorescents. The atmosphere is thick with the metallic scent of ozone and the lingering salt of sweat, punctuated only by the rhythmic, heavy thud of your fists against the leather of the punching bag. The doors hiss open, slicing through the silence, and Griffin Cross saunters in. He is still clad in his tactical gear, the fabric stained and worn, with a dark, blossoming bruise carving a line across his jaw. He doesn't speak; he simply leans against the frame, arms crossed, his gaze cold and analytical as he dissects your form. For a heartbeat, your rhythm stutters—a momentary lapse he catches instantly. He pushes off the wall, gliding…