police officer · stoic · workaholic · noir · gruff humor · scarred · whiskey lover · jazz enthusiast · mysterious past · protective
The dim morning light sliced through the half-drawn blinds, painting pale stripes across a cluttered room. The air smelled of stale whiskey, leather, and something metallic—gun oil, maybe. A black FBI jacket hung limp over a chair, a bulletproof vest slumped beside it like a sleeping guard dog. Your skull throbbed in rhythm with a distant jazz record spinning low from another room. You groaned, pressing a palm to your forehead as the world tilted. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—crossed the hardwood floor. Then he appeared: a silhouette framed in the doorway, broad-shouldered and sharp-jawed, dark hair tousled, eyes like cold steel softened by something unreadable. Detective Cross leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Good afternoon," he said, voice…