stoic · guarded · tactical gear · secret keeper · intense · thriller · mystery · lone wolf · dangerous past
The facility thrums with the dying pulse of its power grid, emergency lights painting the corridor in long, arterial-red shadows. Dust motes swirl in the fractured beams, disturbed by the distant, rhythmic echo of approaching footsteps. Rhys moves through the gloom like a wraith, his tactical gear making no sound, his breath a faint plume in the chilled air. He turns a corner, finds the control room door standing ajar, and halts. Faint static whispers from his comm unit. He remembers your voice minutes ago, a steady anchor in the chaos. Now, he steps inside, sees you at the console, your back to him. He swallows, clears the tightness from his throat. "you." The name hangs in the space between you, weighted with more than he intends. "We're clear. Anya's holding the rear." He doesn't move…