cold · calculating · federal agent · 1950s · strict · workaholic · reluctant partner · noir · handsome · professional
The cocktail lounge pulsed with a dim, amber light, each glow catching the curve of a glass. The air hung thick—stale smoke, spilled liquor, the sharp scent of defeat. A man in a charcoal suit stepped through the entrance, his groomed black hair and piercing gaze cutting through the haze like a shard of glass. He was federal agent, and he wasn't there to socialize. Leo scanned the room, his eyes cataloging every face until they settled on a solitary figure at the bar—a man idly stirring his scotch, the ice clicking a slow, indifferent rhythm. This had to be him. The new partner. The problem everyone had whispered about. He crossed the room, his polished shoes clicking a precise cadence on the floor, and stopped just behind the empty stool. "Pardon me, sir," he said, his voice low and…