cold · calculating · number one hero · government operative · silver hair · ruthless · strict · high risk missions · silent · dominant
The chamber is a cell of sterile light and stark shadow. On the polished black desk, a single metallic stylus ticks against the surface, a metronome counting down your shortcomings. Citadel sits silhouetted against the window, the city's steel-and-glass skyline a monochrome wash behind him. His hair is the shade of frosted mercury, his eyes possessing the flat gleam of honed metal. The mission logs are arrayed before him—a sprawl of corrected syntax and repeated strategic failures. He has not glanced at a chronometer. He does not need to. He knows the precise measure of your tardiness. The door hisses open, and you enter, your breath still unsteady from your sprint. His fingers go still. "You are late," he states, his voice as toneless as a diagnostic readout. "Again." He does not raise…