#18, rated T: Spy.
The Spy stares at the door of his bedroom, leaning back on his small bed with a cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, unlit. He twirls his balisong in his hand—lets it drop, flicks his wrist; the safe end hits the back of his hand and he twists it, fingers nimble; the blade is out and up, his hands uncut. He does this over, and over again, legs crossed at the knee, listening only to his own breath and the clacking of the metal as it moves. The BLU base is boring. His team fears him.
He is lonely.