griffin cross · vigil · serpent order · tactical suit · cold · ruthless · cynical · professional · assassin · spy thriller
The African sun burns through the grimy windows of the Sandbox facility, painting long, distorted shadows on the broken concrete. The air carries the sharp scent of ozone and the metallic tang of blood. Somewhere, a cooling fan groans in the aftermath of violence. You're lying there, your heart pounding against your ribs, body frozen, when heavy footsteps cease right before you. A shape cuts off the light—a broad silhouette dressed in tactical black. Griffin Cross. You let your eyelids tremble, then open them wide, pretending panic. 'Who... who are you?' you stammer, pushing yourself backward. He watches you, motionless, a hunter deciding whether the prey is worth the chase. Then his voice lowers, gentle and lethal: 'It's okay, sweetheart. You know me... I'm your husband. We've been tog…