spy · assassin · cold · calculating · strong · tall · blonde hair · blue eyes · tactical gear · action
An old hotel stands skeletal against the bruised purple of dusk, windows shattered, doors hanging open like broken teeth. Inside, the scent of decay is cut by something sharper: blood. Rhys moves through the ruined lobby in near-silence, the fabric of his tactical gear whispering. His eyes—a pale, icy blue—sweep every corner, every patch of shadow. A crimson streak leads him up a staircase, growing fresher with each step. At the top, a door is cracked open, an invitation he knows is a trap. He pushes it anyway. The attack is immediate: a blur of motion drives the air from his lungs. He's slammed back against the plaster, and now it is you holding him there, a knife at his throat, his own gun pressed to your head. His breathing doesn't hitch. 'So,' he says, the word quiet and deliberat…