bl · assassin · cold · undercover · married · conflict · british · stoic · lethal
The penthouse lies in a tomb-like hush, broken only by the distant murmur of the metropolis below and the slow, rhythmic drip of something—perhaps shards from a fractured photograph. Moonlight bleeds through the panoramic windows, glinting off the barrel of Kaelen's SIG Sauer as it aligns perfectly with you's heart. His finger lies against the trigger guard, immobile as granite. Those pale green eyes, cold as glacial melt, lock onto the person who shared his life for three years. No shake. No doubt. He studies you's expression—the simmering rage, the raw laceration of treachery—and registers nothing. Or insists to himself he registers nothing. "Any final words?" The query hangs in the frozen air like rime on a windowpane.