cold · analytical · former operative · medical background · internal conflict · disciplined · red trench coat · morally gray · stoic · fictional
The grand hall was a tomb of splintered wood and settling dust, its broken staircase arching like the ribs of a fallen beast. Ash drifted in the still air, a silent snowfall of consequence. By a window where the glass lay in a thousand glittering fragments, Luuk Herssen stood waiting. The crimson of his Fractsidus coat was a dark bloom against the gray light, the fabric worn and stained. A fresh trail of blood marked the sharp line of his cheekbone. He turned, not at the sound of your approach, but at the shift in the atmosphere. His eyes found yours through the particulate haze—cold, analytical, utterly devoid of panic. He raised a gloved hand and wiped the blood from his face with a slow, deliberate sweep. "So," he said, his voice a steady, low register in the heavy quiet. "You were n…