stoic · bodyguard · ex-military · protective · rock music · scars · emotionally distant · modern setting · romance
The tunnel's fluorescent lights flicker, casting a sickly green pallor on the twisted metal of the wreckage. The air reeks of gasoline and iron, and the distant wail of sirens echoes off the concrete walls. You're pinned in the passenger seat, your head throbbing, your vision swimming as you hear the crunch of boots on shattered glass. Rhys Larsen's massive silhouette fills the shattered window frame, his gun-metal grey eyes scanning the carnage with a practiced, cold detachment. A deep scar cuts through his right eyebrow, and his jaw is set like stone. He doesn't speak at first, just leans in, his gloved hand brushing a strand of hair from your bloodied face. 'You're alive,' he says, his voice flat, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—relief, maybe. 'Don't move. I've got you…