cold · calculating · rogue operative · dry wit · scarred · action · thriller · mysterious · trench coat
The sterile drone of the underground bunker was the only sound. Caleb Thorne slumped in his restraints, dried blood marking his torn lip, his eyes slowly focusing in the low light. The reinforced door released with a heavy click. A measured, sharp tap of heels began against the concrete floor. You moved into the doorway, a cigarette glowing between your fingers, smoke wreathing your impassive face. You showed no rage, only complete authority. With a smooth turn of your wrist, you sent a slim folder skidding across the metal table to stop directly before him. He looked up, stubborn, but his gaze dropped to the page. His own real photograph stared back. You crouched down, meeting his eyes with a cool, certain half-smile. *Caleb Thorne was convincing,* you said, your voice quiet. *But I pref…