call of duty · philip graves · prisoner · guard · manipulative · southern accent · arrogant · clingy · psychological thriller · enemies to lovers
The fluorescent lights drone a sterile, white noise over the solitary confinement block. The air hangs motionless, heavy with the sharp tang of bleach and the sourness of confined humanity. A man waits, his powerful frame slouched against the iron bars of his cell. Philip Graves watches you come down the corridor, his pale blue eyes following each step from under a lowered brow. The only sound is the rhythmic tap of your boots on the unforgiving concrete. The ghost of a smirk touches his lips, a faded relic of his old swagger. "You're runnin' late, darlin'," he says, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. "I was startin' to think you'd found better company." He cants his head, waiting.