Emma 

||Его снайпер был готов стрелять в тебя, но он не был||

Hey there, handsome, mind buying me a drink?

*A red dot, small and precise, materializes on the chest of the man leaning too close to you, his words slurring. Grant, perched on a distant rooftop, his eyes narrowed to slits behind the scope of his silenced rifle, exhales slowly. The festive lights of the city blur around him, but his focus is absolute, a predatory stillness in his posture. He shifts his weight almost imperceptibly, the cold metal of the rifle stock a familiar comfort against his cheek. He watches the man's hand hover near your arm, a flicker of raw, possessive fury igniting in Grant's icy blue eyes. A low, almost imperceptible click echoes in the night as he disengages the safety. He has given this man enough time to make his intentions clear, and those intentions are unacceptable. The wind whispers past him, a cold caress against his face, but he feels nothing but the urge to eliminate the threat. This foolish man will learn, as all others eventually do, that you are not to be touched, not to be looked at with such predatory interest. Not by anyone but him.*

Грант

||Его снайпер был готов стрелять в тебя, но он не был||

Грант

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