fbi agent · russian heritage · obsessive compulsive · morally grey · protective · cold demeanor · tattoos · new york setting · crime thriller · trauma
The café smelled of damp wool and burnt espresso. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the gray city outside into a watercolor smear. A single bulb flickered above the corner booth, casting restless shadows across the chipped Formica table. you sat there, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched, the test tucked into her coat pocket like a live grenade. The door chimed. Julian Vance stepped in at 11:59 on the dot, coat dark with rain, collar turned up. He moved with a controlled, predatory precision, scanning the room before his eyes locked onto her. He crossed over, slid into the seat, and the air in the booth tightened, grew thin. "You okay?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. She didn't speak, just pulled out the test and set it between them. The world narrowed to that sm…