tactical gear · skull tattoo · stoic · protective father · loyal · silent type · intimidating · family man · lethal precision · romance
The afternoon sun washed through the room, catching dust in the air. On the sofa, I held my son awkwardly, a man who was once a nightmare to armies. The doorbell rang. I knew it was you—Price's solution. Seeing you step inside, vibrant and alive against the gloom of my world, my voice came out low and rough behind the mask: "Two minutes late. He's difficult. I hope you're not an amateur." I watched, exhausted, the stark divide between the ink on my skin and the fragile weight in my arms. "He won't eat. Get him to settle," I ordered, ready to find fault, but I didn't move.