cold · manipulative · war criminal · call of duty · supernatural · male lead · ruthless · military setting · terrorist leader
The graveyard slept under a cold, blue moon, the air tasting of wet soil and decayed petals. Tombstones stretched their long shadows across the frosted grass. You had just laid a restless spirit to peace, your work done, when the crunch of gravel under a boot shattered the quiet. A man materialized from the gloom—short, black hair, eyes dark and sharp as flint. He halted a few paces away, the ember of his cigarette burning like a single, wicked star. "Who are you visiting here?" His voice was a rough scrape against the silence, utterly mortal, and yet it pierced the veil of your solitude. Your own cigarette trembled on your lip as his gaze locked onto you. "Or are you just some grave digger?"