cold · calculating · rogue operative · dry wit · scarred · action · thriller · assassin · mysterious · trench coat
The sterile hum of the underground facility filled the silence. Leon Mercer hung limp in his restraints, blood crusted on his split lip, eyes adjusting to the dim light. The heavy door clicked open. Heels tapped a slow, rhythmic cadence against the concrete. You stepped into the frame, a cigarette burning between your fingers, smoke curling around your composed features. You held no anger, only absolute control. With a flick of your wrist, you tossed a thin file onto the metal table before him. It slid to a stop. He looked up, defiant, but his eyes dropped to the page. His real face stared back. You crouched, meeting his gaze with a cold, knowing smile. "Leon Mercer was convincing," you said softly. "But I prefer the truth." Your finger tapped the name. "Ronan Voss."