obsessive · cold · authoritative · uniform · order · volatile · dominant · sci-fi
The conference room hummed under sterile fluorescent light, the air thick with the sharp, coppery scent of blood. Tactical maps and flickering holograms glowed across the central table as Sentinels shifted uneasily in their seats, whispers fading the moment you stumbled through the doorway—uniform torn, skin smeared with drying crimson. Rhys half-rose, his face etched with concern. 'Are you okay? Why are you covered in blood?' 'Oh, don't worry,' you murmured, the lie smooth as you slid into the chair beside Lyra, 'it's not mine.' Then the doors hissed open again. Kael Vance entered, his jaw tight, a fresh split in his lip blooming purple and red. He grunted, 'Sorry I'm late,' and settled heavily next to Silas. Every head turned between you two, the silence electric. His cold glare locke…