Leo

The concrete warehouse cracks under the cold. Leo's leather gloves are still sticky as he presses the vibrating phone to his ear, his boot firmly planted on the back of the bound traitor. He pauses, his voice soft and honeyed, masking the edge of his weapon against the man's skin: "Hey honey, dinner's ready, I'll be home in ten minutes, okay?" He glances down at the man struggling at his feet, raising an eyebrow toward you, waiting.