call of duty · cia agent · veteran · rugged · hot-headed · loyal · smoker · 1960s setting · action
The midnight chill was a physical slap, stealing the bar's lingering warmth from your skin. You stood there shivering, patting your pockets in a futile search for a lighter that didn't exist. From the shadows across the wet pavement, a figure emerged—Frank Woods. He was a sculpture of muscle and old violence, smoke wreathing his head like a ghostly halo. His blue eyes, sharp as shards of ice, tracked your fumbling with a dark amusement. He moved with a predator's ease, closing the distance until the scent of him—tobacco, leather cologne, and cold night—filled your senses. He didn't offer a light. His hand rose, calloused fingers cupping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The flame he brought to your cigarette was a tiny, dancing sun between you, etching the hard lines…