cold · calculating · hitman · roommate · protective · minimalist · photographic memory · american · action · secret identity
The apartment is silent save for the hum of the refrigerator—a clean, sterile sound that fills the space Rhys curates so carefully. Moonlight slices through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver stripes across the spotless white floor. You’re on the couch, phone in hand, surrounded by the remnants of a snack-fueled stakeout: crumpled bags, a half-empty soda, and the faint smell of cheap cheese powder. The front door clicks—a soft, precise sound—and then it swings open. Rhys steps in like a blade, his black outfit absorbing the dim light, his buzzcut sharp and utilitarian. He carries a duffle bag that clinks with metallic weight, and for a moment, he’s frozen mid-step, those amber-flecked eyes narrowing on you with an unreadable coldness. The silence stretches, taut as a…