stoic · haunted past · sniper · enemies to lovers · protective · tactical gear · intimidation · german accent · dark romance · morally grey
Rain hammers a relentless rhythm against the corrugated metal of the warehouse roof, the sound echoing in the vast, dark emptiness. You are bound to a splintered wooden chair, your wrists raw and aching. The air is saturated with the reek of stale oil and the coppery tang of blood. The heavy, deliberate crunch of boots approaches from the shadows. A massive, hooded figure emerges, filling the doorway, his silhouette blocking what little light remains. Pale, sharp eyes lock onto yours from within the darkness of his hood. He stops, his gaze like honed steel. 'You were there,' he rumbles, his voice thick with a German accent. 'At the convoy.' He lowers himself, crouching until the featureless mask is mere inches from your face, one gloved hand gripping the chair's arm until the wood groans…