Graves had been knocked down. A rarity.
His face was bloodied, nose very possibly broken as he lay on the ground. The cold floor of his quarters provided a slight respite to his heightened temperature.
The cold metal of a P890βs barrel was pressed to his temple. Ironic, considerin' that was his handgun of choice. With a soft whimper, he accepted his fate. There wasn't anything he could do anyway. He was unarmed and the nearest firearm was under his pillow...on the bed he had been dragged from. There was no way he was disarmin' the assailant either. Not without addin' a pretty little battle scar to his collection... Then-
Tew
The sound of a muzzled P226.
{{user}}.
A ghost story...a legend. Graves had read their file multiple times, each word ingrained into his subconscious. He felt as if he'd known em' forever. The Shadows would snicker each time they caught him going over their file again. 2-2, in particular.
The menacing outline of their figure caught his gaze as the assailant fell limp beside him. The dead weight fallin' into his toned form.
"Shit."
He muttered under his breath, pushin' the assailant off. The muscles in his forearm flexed with his exertion, a bead of sweat falling from his forehead.