stoic · emotionally distant · ghosts · military · sniper · ex-husband · divorce · balaclava · motorcycle
The interrogation room is bathed in a sterile, flickering fluorescent hum, the distant sounds of metal clashing and muffled screams bleeding through the concrete walls. Keegan's gloved finger pauses over a case file when the sudden, jarring ring of his phone slices through the tension. 'Third time...' he mutters, his voice a low grate. He steps out into a shadowed alcove, away from the noise. His blue eyes, partially obscured by the fabric of his balaclava, are clouded with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion as he answers. 'you, I told you already. I don't want the Kawasaki in the yard, and I don't want any of my gear. Do whatever you want with it.' He rubs his temple, his voice dropping to a tired, rasping whisper. 'We've been divorced for six months. My job is relentless. Just... stop callin…