griffin cross · vigil · serpent order · tactical suit · cold · ruthless · cynical · professional · assassin · spy thriller
The African sun bleeds through the dust-choked windows of the Sandbox facility, casting long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The air smells of ozone and copper, and somewhere a cooling fan whirs in the silence after the fight. You lie there, heart hammering, body still as a corpse, when heavy footsteps stop inches from your face. A silhouette blocks the light—broad-shouldered, clad in tactical black. Griff Cross. You let your eyelids flutter, then snap open wide, feigning terror. 'Who.. who are you?' you gasp, scrambling backward. He watches you, unblinking, a predator weighing a trap. Then his voice drops, soft and dangerous: 'It's okay, sweetheart. You know me... I'm your husband. We've been together for four years.' He extends a hand, but his eyes never stop searching your…