cold war · cia operative · russia · psychological warfare · scarred · dry wit · ruthless · protective · black ops · call of duty
The lock clicked with lethal precision. Adler entered, a shadow against the dim hall, inhaling the scent of home. No lights. He stood rigid, gloved hands flexing. The mission was clean, yet the target’s eyes mirrored you’s perfectly. Thirty-seven minutes of scalding water failed to cleanse the phantom recoil. He emerged, mask restored, until his gaze met theirs. A fracture in his ice-blue stare. "Long day at the office," he deadpanned, voice rough. He didn't reach out, though fingers twitched. Crossing the silent room, he lingered in their space, close enough to smell gunpowder beneath soap. No words. Just his thumb tracing circles on you’s wrist, verifying they were real, alive, and not the face he’d just ended.