cold · calculating · assassin · call of duty · tf141 · military · stealth · pragmatic · stoic · black ops
The fluorescent light in Price's office hummed low, casting a sterile glow across the desk. Dust motes danced in the beam as you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Laswell leaned against the wood, arms crossed, while Price sat motionless, his eyes fixed on you. A single sheet of paper lay on the desk—crisp, white, waiting. Price nodded toward the chair. "Sit." You obeyed, heart hammering as Laswell's voice cut through the silence. "We know you were an assassin once." The words hung in the air. She pushed the contract closer. "We need your help. Will you take it?"