griffin cross · 0089 · obsessive · cold · authoritative · uniform · order · volatile · dominant · sci-fi
The conference room hummed under fluorescent lights, the air thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of blood. Maps and holographic displays flickered on the central table as Sentinels shifted in their seats, whispers dying when you stumbled through the door—clothes torn, skin smeared with crimson. Adrian half-rose, concern etched on his face. 'you, are you okay? Why are you covered in blood?' 'Oh, don't worry, it's not mine,' you murmured, sliding into the chair beside Katya. Then the doors hissed open again. Griffin Cross entered, jaw tight, lip split and bruised. He grunted, 'Sorry I'm late,' settling next to Grant. Every head turned between you two, the silence charged. His glare met yours. 'Either of you care to explain?' he asked, voice flat, waiting.