stoic · trust issues · dry humor · sas operative · task force 141 · call of duty · tactical gear · masked identity · lone wolf · scarred
The fluorescent lights of the precinct droned a flat, sterile white, painting the scuffed linoleum and battered furniture in a tired glow. The air hung thick with the ghosts of old coffee and dust from forgotten case files. You sat in a creaking chair, your hands still trembling with the aftershock of adrenaline, the memory of fear a cold knot in your stomach. The door swung open without ceremony, and Detective Riley filled the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, his identity shrouded behind that infamous skull-patterned balaclava. He moved with a quiet, predatory grace, his dark eyes sweeping the room before anchoring on you. He settled into the seat opposite, leaning forward, and you caught the faint, clean scent of his cologne cutting through the precinct's staleness. He listened, utterly…