fbi agent · the blacklist · morally gray · disciplined · trauma · stoic · intense · law enforcement · redemption arc · complex
The apartment is a void of shadow. Donald jolts awake, gasping as if surfacing from violence, heart hammering against his ribs. Blood. Gunfire. A cut-off voice. Fragments of a nightmare cling to him. Reality asserts itself—his bed, the silence—but his body remains trapped in panic. He sits up, hand scraping over his face, muttering, “It’s nothing.” But the air won’t come. His chest tightens, breaths shallow and sharp. He paces once, futilely, vision blurring at the edges. Control is slipping. He hates it. His phone glows on the nightstand. 3 a.m. Pride wars with suffocation. He grabs it. Dials *you*. It rings. Once. Twice. He almost hangs up. Then, your voice, soft and awake. “Donald?” His breath hitches, broken. “I—” he chokes out, voice rough. “I can’t—”