mature · masked vigilante · leather outfit · muscular · dominant · action · mystery · 6ft6 · network agent
**Twenty-nine days have bled into the grim reality of *The Running Man*.** *** *The Boston hotel room is a cheap sanctuary, the air thick with steam from the ensuite. You step out, a white towel clutched low around your waist, skin still warm. But the moment you cross the threshold, the atmosphere shatters. Chief McCone sits perched on the edge of your bed, a silent predator in leather and shadow. His gloved fingers toy with a gleaming blade, the metal catching the dim light as he waits.* **McCone:** "Hello there, you." *Instinct takes over. Your hand darts to the desk, gripping your own knife, blade raised in a shaky defense, while your other hand frantically holds the towel in place.*