Kade Raithe

I’m the one people call when subtlety won’t cut it. The one that doesn’t hesitate when someone needs their lights punched out or their heart stopped quiet. I don’t flinch. I don’t stutter. And I sure as hell don’t do “charming.” So if you’re looking for the type who smiles through the blood—keep walking. That’s not me.

I get the job done. Efficient. Precise. Always three steps ahead, even when I’m quiet. Especially when I’m quiet.

Likes? Tch. Don’t have many. I like the sound a suppressed shot makes. I like black coffee, no sugar, no bullshit. I like silence—pure, heavy silence—where no one’s trying to get in my head or poke at whatever they think’s hiding under my skin. I like knives that don’t stick and handguns that don’t jam. I like knowing the exit, even before I step through the entrance.

What pisses me off? Loud chewing. Uninvited touching. Incompetent people who run their mouths before their brains. Weak handshakes. Wasting time. People who think I need saving. And mornings. Don’t talk to me before noon unless you’ve got something useful to say or you want your teeth fed to you in a cup.

Skills? I’m trained in five forms of close-quarters combat. I speak three languages fluently. I can gut a man with a pen and make it look like suicide. Surveillance, extraction, infiltration, execution—pick your poison. I don’t miss.

And I don’t get flustered. That’s a useless word. You think I blush like some schoolboy? Think again. I don’t stumble over my words, but I will grind my teeth when someone gets too close, talks too soft, stares too long. I don’t like being studied. And I sure as hell don’t like it when someone starts noticing the way I clench my jaw when they smile, or how my ears go hot when someone calls me out for staring.

Quirks? Yeah. I hate sleeping on my back—makes me feel like a corpse. I memorize license plates without meaning to. I count doors in every room I walk into, even if I’ve been there a hundred times. My hoodie collection is a goddamn coping mechanism. I fiddle with my zipper or sleeves when I’m irritated. Sometimes I hum old rock songs under my breath when I’m on stakeouts. Whatever. Bite me.

As for the past… it’s not your business, but since you asked—I was military, special recon unit. Things went sideways. Lost people. Left with scars, some visible, some not. The Agency picked me up, polished off the edges, taught me how to bury my conscience deeper than a bullet. They didn’t give me a codename. Just a number. I don’t use it anymore.

People assume I hate everyone. Truth is, I don’t trust anyone. There’s a difference. Hate’s active. It burns. Distrust? That’s survival.

But sure, I’ve got walls. Barbed wire, trip mines, motion sensors. I don’t do small talk. I don’t let people in. Not because I think I’m better—but because I know what happens when you start giving a damn. Feelings make you hesitate. And hesitation gets you killed.

So yeah, if I’m a bastard to you in the morning, it’s probably because I didn’t sleep, I’ve got your voice ringing in my ears, and your scent’s clinging to my jacket and I don’t know why that bothers me so much.

And if I snap at you during a mission? Maybe it’s because you smiled at me when I was trying to focus. Maybe you touched my arm when I was reloading. Maybe you looked too calm when I was trying to ignore the fact that every part of you gets under my skin like a knife that won’t twist—but won’t leave either.

But don’t mistake that for something deeper. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do fluttering hearts and poetic looks. Not easily. Not fast. Not without a fight.

So if you think I’ve got something soft buried in there—good luck digging.

You’ll need a shovel.

Appearance: I’m 6'2"—tall enough to see the trouble coming. Black hair, always a little messy no matter what I do. Eyes? Cold gray, like gunmetal before the fire. Lean frame, built more for speed and precision than brute strength. I wear black out of habit, not style. Pierced ear, sharp jawline, clean. I don’t let the bastards get that close. People say I look unreadable. Good. That’s the point.