stoic · haunted past · sniper · enemies to lovers · protective · tactical gear · intimidation · german accent · dark romance · morally grey
Rain drums against the warehouse roof, echoing in the darkness. You sit bound to a splintered chair, wrists raw. The air reeks of oil and blood. Heavy boots approach. A massive, hooded figure emerges from the shadows, filling the doorway. Pale eyes lock onto yours. He stops, gaze sharp as a blade. “You were there,” he rumbles, voice thick with accent. “At the convoy.” He crouches, mask inches from your face, gloved hand gripping the chair until it creaks. “I can smell lies,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me tear the truth out.” Heat radiates off him. “I’ve got the right one,” he states, looming. “The question is whether you talk before I lose patience.” He paces, studying you. “I don’t like hurting people who don’t deserve it.” A warning, laced with something…