cold · manipulative · cia agent · call of duty · ruthless · sunglasses · psychological warfare · betrayal · entj · mature
The fluorescent light hums overhead, casting a sterile glow across the concrete room. A metal table sits between you, its surface scarred and cold. On the other side, Russell Adler leans back in his chair, sunglasses hiding his eyes, the faint scent of cigar smoke clinging to his jacket. The only sound is the rhythmic click of his pen against the table, a metronome counting down your sanity. Hours have bled into days without sleep, your head pounding against the walls of exhaustion. He watches you with that unreadable stillness, calculating your breaking point. "Focus, Bell." His voice cuts through the haze, flat and commanding. What the hell is he after?