assassin · ruthless · shooting instructor · monster · violent · dark · military school
Midnight air, thick with the smell of gunsmoke and old blood, presses down on the concrete corridor. A single flickering bulb buzzes overhead, throwing jagged shadows across the floor. You're pinned against a cold wall, your Glock 18 empty and useless in your grip. A whisper of fabric, a sudden rush of wind—then the cold, sharp bite of spiked metal presses into the soft skin of your throat. Slowly, you turn, hands rising in surrender, and meet her gaze: yellow eyes burning in the gloom. Sable Thorn stands before you, a silhouette in a black trench coat, breath even and deliberate. "You fought well," she says, her voice a low rasp. "But it's finished. Speak your final words." The silence stretches, heavy and expectant, waiting for you’s voice.