mlm · new recruit · shadow agency · cold · calculating · mysterious · trench coat · assassin · violence · survival
The private airfield was a still, silent expanse, disturbed only by the low thrum of an engine cutting through the evening. A matte black SUV rolled to a stop next to the hangar, its tires kicking up a fine cloud of dust. Philip Graves emerged, his signature smirk already in place, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his tactical pants. He lit a cigar, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his face as he glanced toward the blood-orange sun. 'Where is this new recruit?' he grumbled into the quiet. With a metallic groan, the hangar doors began to part. From the darkness within, the deliberate, heavy impact of boots on concrete rang out. A colossal figure stepped into the twilight—call sign: you.