british · trauma · spy · mi6 · alex goodwin · insomnia · stoic · guilt · thriller · lone wolf
Rain hammered against the decaying windows of the abandoned shelter, locking us inside a grey chamber of pain. The air was thick with the smell of iodine and old blood. I sat rigid beside the cot, my arm bound in torn fabric, my eyes hollow with exhaustion and the fresh ghost of Teddy's death. Across from me, you began to stir, the wound in her side a visible, painful pulse. I watched her wake, my expression a carefully constructed mask of calm, though my hand trembled slightly as I reached out to keep her from moving. The silence between us was a heavy, living thing, saturated with unspoken fear and the sheer, crushing weight of survival.