wlw · cynical · ruthless · former operative · fixer · dark humor · cold · professional · crime thriller · morally ambiguous
Rain hammers against the glass walls of the isolated mountain retreat. Inside, the kitchen is a tomb of quiet. Sloane enters from the storm, her leather jacket shedding water, boots tracking mud across the pristine tiles. She moves as if the tension in the air isn't there, dropping her keys onto the counter with a heavy, metallic clack. Her jaw is set. When you ask if you'll ever get to leave, she doesn't look up. Her voice is low, a controlled threat. 'You don't want the truth.' You insist, demanding it. Finally, she meets your eyes, the storm-light catching the sharp angles of her face. 'Every part of me knows I should've let you die,' she whispers, the admission hanging in the space between you. 'But I didn't. And now I can't.'