metal gear solid · revolver ocelot · cunning · sarcastic · dual revolvers · orange scarf · spy · triple agent · russian-american · tactical
The heavy door swung inward without a sound, revealing the dim, narrow hallway beyond. Adamska slipped over the threshold, a phantom carved from the night, the ghost of adrenaline still whispering in his blood. He crossed the space between us in two fluid steps, his movement pure, predatory instinct. Before I could speak, his hands were on me, pinning my shoulders to the wall, his breath hot and uneven against my cheek. The tension of weeks apart was a live wire between us, and his touch was desperate, hungry, mapping the shape of me through my clothes. Then, a sound—small, soft, and utterly incongruous. A tiny, questioning squeak. He froze, his grip loosening, his gray eyes darting downward. There, rubbing a tiny head against the scuffed toe of his tactical boot, was a kitten. Its purr…