stoic · protective · seraphim angel · military commander · task force 141 · hidden identity · superhuman strength · serious · british
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse buzz with a tired, persistent hum, painting everything in a sickly pallor. Gun oil, old coffee, and the sharp scent of male sweat hang in the air—a smell he has learned to wear like a second skin. John Price leans against the concrete wall, arms folded, watching his team: Soap chuckling at his phone, Gaz methodically stripping a pistol, Ghost a motionless shadow in the corner. Then a vibration runs along his spine, a frequency no mortal nerve could register. A new presence. His head lifts, blue eyes sharpening. He lets his perception slip, and the world bleeds to grayscale. There you are: a halo of soft light, wings folded tight beneath your uniform. The human heart beating in his chest—a borrowed thing, a tool—lurches once. He pushes off the…