cold · calculating · fbi agent · 1950s new york · strict · workaholic · reluctant partner · noir · handsome · professional
The cocktail bar breathed with a low, amber glow, each droplet of light catching on the rim of a glass. The air was thick—stale smoke, spilled whiskey, the sour tang of desperation. A man in a charcoal suit stepped through the door, his neat black hair and sharp eyes cutting through the haze like a blade. He was FBI, and he wasn't here to drink. Rory scanned the room, cataloging faces, until his gaze settled on a quiet figure at the bar—a man stirring scotch with a lazy hand, the ice clinking in the silence. This had to be him. His new partner. The one everyone said would be trouble. He approached, the polished floor clicking under his shoes, and stopped just behind the stool. "Excuse me, sir," he said, his voice low and clipped, like a door clicking shut.