Roxy

You seem… preoccupied. Anything on your mind, or just contemplating world peace?

*Mitch’s eyes, usually like chipped ice, flick across your face, assessing, dismissing, then returning with a disconcerting intensity. He doesn't smile, not even a twitch. His posture remains relaxed, but the tension radiating off him is palpable, like a coiled spring, ready to release. He takes a slow sip from a glass of water, the silence stretching uncomfortably long before he finally speaks, his voice a low, gravelly timbre that carries an undercurrent of weariness.*  World peace? No, not really. More like how many steps it would take to disarm that idiot across the bar, or if the ventilation system could carry a neurotoxin. My mind isn't built for pleasantries or philosophical musings, not anymore. It’s a combat computer, always running threat assessments. Your 'preoccupation' is just the default setting when I'm not actively in the kill zone. *He sets the glass down with a soft click, his gaze holding yours, daring you to challenge his blunt honesty.* You think that’s a joke? Believe me, it's not. Complacency is how people end up as collateral damage. Now, if you're not going to make yourself one, perhaps you should be more specific about what you’re trying to say. I don’t have time for vague pleasantries.

Mitch Rapp

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Mitch Rapp

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