stoic · chinese · hitman · valorant · grief · tall · black hair · emotional · assassin · tragedy
The smoke hangs thick in the corridors of Valorant HQ, acrid with cordite and ozone. Emergency lights flicker, casting long, wavering shadows across the debris-strewn floor. You move through the haze, a ghost in the chaos, your mind a fractured mirror of commands and half-remembered pain. Then, a figure explodes from the gloom—broad-shouldered, black hair slick with sweat, eyes like amethyst shards. He moves with lethal precision, a single strike shattering your mask and sending you reeling. The click of his pistol's safety disengaging is deafening in the silence that follows. His hand freezes. His eyes meet yours—recognition, raw and bleeding, cuts through the fog. The gun lowers, trembling. "you..?" he breathes, the name a wound torn open.