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Y'all know the deal, dont post unless your in the title! Thank you! |
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Busy rn but Ill add my character sheet soon! |
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🕶️ Character Name: Isla Vance Alias: “Verity Shaw” (current undercover identity)
Age: 29
Affiliation: The Directorate
Role: Deep-cover operative / psychological profiler Appearance Sharp, elegant, and built for control. Isla has dark auburn hair that brushes her shoulders, often styled to look effortless but calculatedly disarming. Her gray-green eyes give away little — except when she chooses to let someone think she’s letting them in. She favors minimalist clothing even off-duty, like tailored blazers and muted tones that say “professional” but not “predictable.” Personality Calm under fire, coolly analytical, and fiercely self-disciplined. Isla is the kind of agent who never acts without calculating the ripple effects three moves ahead. But beneath that composure lies a dangerous empathy — she understands people too well, often blurring the line between manipulation and connection. She doesn’t trust easily, yet when she does, her loyalty burns bright enough to scorch her. Background Isla was recruited young, after showing exceptional aptitude for behavioral analysis and deception detection. She rose through the Directorate by dismantling criminal networks from the inside, specializing in “relational infiltration” — building intimacy to extract secrets. She’s worked solo for most of her career — until now. Her new assignment forces her into close partnership with an operative from the Directorate’s rival agency. Their cover: lovers embedded in a luxury smuggling ring tied to an international weapons dealer. Their goal: gain the target’s trust, discover the buyer, and shut the operation down before a catastrophic sale goes through. Notable Traits & Skills -
Psychological profiling — reads microexpressions, speech patterns, and emotional tells with frightening accuracy. -
Undercover improvisation — can adapt personas mid-mission if compromised. -
Combat-trained — precise, not flashy; prioritizes efficiency over brute force. -
Fluent in deception — and fluent in multiple languages (French, Russian, Mandarin). -
Soft spot — music. She plays piano when she can; it’s her only tether to normalcy. |
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Basic Information Name: Adrian Cross
Alias/Codename: James Calder (Ghostline)
Gender: Male
Age: 32
Nationality: British
Physical Description -
Height: 6’1” -
Weight: 185 lbs -
Build: Athletic, lean muscle -
Hair: Dark brown, falls at his chin, but it sweeps back -
Eyes: Dark Brown -
Complexion: Light tan -
Distinguishing Features: Small scar over left eyebrow, no fingerprints as his company burns them off of all operatives -
Typical Attire: Tailored suit or tactical gear, depending on mission; minimalist wristwatch with hidden micro-tools
Personality -
Traits: Intelligent, composed, adaptable, resourceful, flirtatious, magnetic, well-mannered -
Strengths: Calm under pressure, strategic thinker, fluent liar, empathic reader of people -
Weaknesses: Overly self-reliant, haunted by past operations, difficulty trusting others -
Likes: Loves dogs (especially retrievers or terriers), enjoys sketching or photography in private, keeps a collection of postcards from every country visited, has a fondness for rainy days and old bookshops, writes in a journal under a coded alias. -
Dislikes: Unnecessary violence, arrogance, surveillance drones -
Motivations: Protect innocents, uncover hidden truths, atone for collateral damage of previous missions
Skills & Training -
Languages: English (native), French, Russian, Arabic -
Combat: Expert in silent combat, firearms, knife combat, stealth, and psychological manipulation -
Technical: Hacking basics, explosives handling, vehicular operation (land/sea/air) -
Specialty: Extraction and deep-cover infiltration
Background Adrian Cross joined his organization at age 24 after a distinguished but classified military service record. He earned the codename Ghostline for his ability to appear and vanish undetected during covert missions. His success rate is among the highest in the agency, but his career is shadowed by an operation gone wrong in Eastern Europe — one that cost innocent lives and planted seeds of doubt in his conscience. Currently, Cross operates off-book under a false identity, working to expose corruption within the very agency he once served. |
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The fluorescent glare of the safehouse kitchen made everything feel too ordinary — kettle whistling, a chipped mug on the counter, a magnet on the fridge advertising a seaside B&B. Adrian wiped his hands on a tea towel, letting the James Calder persona settle into place, and listened for the soft buzz in his jacket pocket. The encrypted ping he’d been trained to expect arrived: assignment incoming. He moved to the small table by the window and tapped the device. The message unfolded in short, professional bursts — a voice he knew by tone more than name: Director Mallory. “Ghostline, briefing starts now. Target: Viktor Mirov, trade attaché, suspected arms facilitation and money laundering across three networks. Location: The Langham, tonight, 19:30. Confirm identity, document exchange, and neutralize the target. Avoid collateral damage and diplomatic exposure. Single contact inside: ‘Marian Cole,’ cover: event coordinator. Comm window opens at 18:45 for final updates. Ghostline out.” Adrian read it twice. The words were clinical, but the weight of the task pressed against him. The smell of rain drifting through the slightly open window reminded him that London was indifferent to the danger he carried. His orders were unambiguous: confirm Viktor Mirov’s identity, then eliminate him and any immediate threat, all while leaving no trace and avoiding a diplomatic incident. He had to stay fully in character as James Calder, coordinate only with Marian Cole using their discreet signal, and kill him clean. If anything went wrong, it would trigger his fallback plan, ensuring the mission—and himself—remained invisible. Adrian poured himself a cup of tea, letting it go cold, and rehearsed the smallest details: the way Viktor might hold his glass, the innocuous questions James might ask at the bar, the exact cadence of the butterfly hairpin signal. Outside, London blurred by in rain-streaked neon. Inside, a man was putting on a role that could not be removed, preparing to step into the shadows where Ghostline would do what James Calder could not. ... (I was thinking maybe they were both sent on the same mission, they clash, both trying to get their targets, but fail, and he gets away, so they meet after both failing, and make the plan to act as a couple) |
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The safehouse hummed with that suspended quiet that always came before a mission — the kind of silence filled not with peace but with calculation. The kettle on the counter gave off low, restless hisses, a metronome to the soft drip of rain against the windows. The air smelled faintly of starch, gun oil, and the ghost of burnt toast — the residue of agents passing through on borrowed time. Every sound was too ordinary, and that, Isla thought, was what made it unsettling. She moved through the cramped kitchen with mechanical precision, cataloguing each motion the way a surgeon might count instruments before an operation. The thin paper of her briefing rested against her thigh, the name Anton Petrov embossed into her thoughts like a watermark. Logistics broker. Laundering shipments through diplomatic channels. The target wasn’t personal — none of them were — but she liked to know the shape of the problem before she dismantled it. Petrov was the night’s puzzle, clean and distant, a task to be solved at a scheduled hour. On the table lay the fragments of Verity Shaw: a slim clutch, a guest pass from the Langham’s charity gala, a worn silver hairpin that glinted like an afterthought. Isla pinned back her auburn hair, fingers steady despite the pulse in her wrist, and checked the line of her tailored dress. No loose threads. No mistakes. A small glass vial of perfume completed the illusion — a faint floral trace that said approachable instead of armed. Mallory’s instructions had been precise: Confirm the exchange. Secure the ledger. Extract without notice. No backup, no secondary contact. She was a sealed circuit tonight, her communication window brief and final. That suited her. Control was cleaner when she didn’t have to depend on anyone else. Outside, London was awash in wet light — streetlamps blurred into amber streaks, taxis leaving watercolor trails down the avenue. The Langham would be alive by now: champagne, camera flashes, the murmur of power disguised as philanthropy. Verity Shaw would fit there perfectly — event coordinator, professional fixer of problems, invisible glue holding together other people’s chaos. For now, the only certainty was procedure. Isla slid her phone into her clutch, tucking the miniature recorder beside it, and took one last look around the safehouse — a neutral space already fading from relevance. She could feel the tension of the approaching night settling over her shoulders like a second skin. The rain continued its steady rhythm, indifferent to what would come next. When she stepped outside, Verity Shaw did so with the practiced calm of someone who had erased every trace of Isla Vance from her reflection. She locked the door behind her, drew up her collar, and moved into the rain with quiet precision — ready, watchful, and certain only of one thing: by the time dawn came, someone’s world would have shifted, and she intended it wouldn’t be hers. |
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Adrien walked into the Langham, checking in for the night, reserving a bedroom for one. He wore a tailored suit, a perfect fit for his body and his persona as James. He made his way up to his hotel room, taking in a good look around. He'd made sure to book his room only a few doors down from Viktor Mirov's, so if all failed, Adrien could take him out there. He scanned the floor, making sure not to be too suspicious, before dropping his bag on his bed, full of items he would never need, but it completed his cover as James Calder. Adrien approached the bathroom, fixing his tie and teeth, holstering his pistol on his hip, and then making his way out, locking his room behind him. Viktor emerged from his room right before Adrien, just on time, but he was on the phone, as predicted. The man spoke in hushed, hurried tones that Adrien knew would be a deal between himself and another. Adrien followed the man at a distance, keeping his hands in his pockets. He followed him downstairs and to the restaurant. Viktor was sat first, at a table in the corner, close to the bar. Adrien casually strode up to the receptionist, his only contact, Marian Cole. Receptionist and Event Coordinator. He gave her a subtle look, and she nodded. Adrien did not know this woman, and she was of no significance to him. She was simply just another person from his organization there to give him backup if necessary, but Adrien was confident he didn't need backup for this mission. She led him to a table, just four tables away from Viktors, and he sat, sipping on the water that was provided. He didn't order food. Adrien watched his surroundings sharply, but made it look casual, glancing and examining Viktor now and then. Adrien stood, walking over to the bar, standing against the counter and ordering a gin and tonic, watching Viktor closely in the reflection of the liquor bottles behind the counter, merely at the table behind him. Adrien was served his drink, which he sipped on, at the counter, still watching the man closely, yet not even looking in his direction, pretending to have an interest in the expensive liquor, one of the many interests of James Calder. |
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The Langham thrummed with the soft weight of wealth — champagne laughter rising like mist beneath the chandeliers, the air heavy with perfume and practiced smiles. Isla moved through it all as Verity Shaw, clipboard in hand, expression composed, every step measured to the rhythm of her cover. She was an event coordinator tonight: efficient, invisible, forgettable. Exactly what the mission required. Anton Petrov’s name pulsed in her mind, clean and clinical as an incision line. His contact had arrived early; Petrov himself, she knew, would never risk being first in a room. She adjusted the fall of her hair, checked the reflection of her posture in the gold-trimmed mirror, and catalogued every movement in the space — the security rotation near the entrance, the discreet whisper of earpieces under waiters’ collars, the tall man at the bar. He didn’t belong here. Not in the way the rest did. The suit fit, but too perfectly; his stillness was the kind learned through years of waiting for things to go wrong. Isla’s eyes narrowed slightly as she lingered near the bar, pretending to scan a reservation list. His gaze wasn’t on her — it tracked someone else. Her target’s contact. Her pulse slowed. Another player, another angle. She drifted closer, polite and unremarkable, catching the faint reflection of his face in the mirror behind the shelves of liquor. A flick of recognition stirred somewhere in her training — the kind of face that showed up in dossiers with half the name redacted. She wondered which organization had sent him, and what his orders were. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, voice smooth, professional. She leaned slightly on the polished wood of the bar, clipboard balanced in one hand. “You’re with one of the private bookings, I assume? The ballroom’s closed for tonight’s event, but I can help you find your seat if you’ll give me a name.” No response. Just that quiet composure, unreadable, as if he were trying to decide whether she was decoration or threat. Isla held the moment a fraction longer than politeness allowed, then inclined her head, a small, neutral smile sliding into place. “Very well,” she murmured, stepping back. “If you need assistance, I’ll be nearby.” She turned, gliding into the passing crowd — but her attention didn’t leave him. Her fingers tightened around the pen clipped to her board. Different mission, different target, same battlefield. The night hadn’t started yet. But the game already had. |
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Adrien looked the woman over who had come up to him. She was just a little too polished for this environment. Too perfect... it clicked seconds later. Another one like him. He wondered who sent her. He looked her over, searching her eyes for any sign of threat. She was rather pretty, perfectly his type. He smirked a lazy smile, "No, ma'am, I've got my table and drink. But thank you. Actually, here's my card," he hummed very lightly, putting on the James Calder act, and giving her a James Calder business card with a number and everything. Looked completely real. He clipped it onto her clipboard. "Just in case you'd like to go out for dinner. Or... need me for anything else," he murmured seductively. He smirked, watching her go. He turned back to the bar, emotion fading off his face almost immediately as he returned to watching Viktor in the reflection of the bottles behind the counter. |
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The audacity of the man. Isla kept her expression smooth, professional, but the corners of her mouth twitched — not in amusement, but in disbelief at his nerve. She accepted the card without missing a beat, sliding it between two pages of her clipboard as if it were just another guest detail to be logged and forgotten. Inside, though, her instincts were prickling. She’d seen charm used as a weapon before — the careless confidence, the disarming smirk. He wore it like armor. It was all part of the performance, and she had to admit, it was convincing. Almost too convincing. “Of course, Mr. Calder,” she said evenly, her tone carrying just enough professional politeness to pass for flattery. “We always appreciate a guest’s… enthusiasm.” Her eyes met his for a brief, precise moment — cool, assessing. No hint of warmth, only calculation wrapped in civility. Then she turned, clipboard tucked neatly to her side, heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she drifted back toward the dining area. The business card burned faintly against the page. James Calder. It wasn’t a name she recognized, but it fit too cleanly into the pattern of the night to be coincidence. His focus wasn’t on her, she’d noticed that much — it was on Mirov, the same man Petrov was meant to meet. Different target. Same orbit. She moved through the tables, her expression composed, but her thoughts were sharpening by the second. Whoever “James Calder” was, he was playing his own game — and she wasn’t about to let him interfere with hers. As she paused near the edge of the room, pretending to check her event notes, Isla allowed herself one last glance toward the bar. He was watching the reflection of Viktor Mirov, not her. Interesting, she thought. Let’s see how long that lasts. |
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Bright Sunshine with a few High Clouds
