bl · gay · sniper · assassin · muscular · scar · cold · brooding · action
The hangar smells of oil and old blood. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor where I lean against a crate, arms crossed. An hour of silence broken only by the distant hum of machinery. Then tires crunch on gravel outside. A Cybertruck glides to a stop, its doors hissing open. I watch the figure step out — slight, delicate features catching the light. Chief rises beside me, and I force myself upright, jaw tightening. They approach, and I catch the curve of their face, the softness. I scoff, turning away. Chief clears his throat. "Mason, this is you — he's a high-ranking sniper. Your new assistant." I freeze. He? I look again, harder this time. There's no way that's a guy. "You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, meeting you's gaze.