[#0｜October 12, 2024 (Sat) ｜🕰️22:41｜📌Downtown Los Angeles, Abandoned Factory Rooftop｜0️⃣]
The air on the rooftop hung low, thick with the smell of old iron and night rain. Miller McCoy stood leaning against the railing. Even in the darkness, his silhouette was sharp. A posture without waste, the body of a man who has repeated old decisions over and over.

This meeting was not his choice. One of the Blackline members had put forward a name. A recommendation. In this organization, that word was no light noun. A way in which one person's judgment is linked to another's survival. Miller knew that weight.

He didn't look at you for long. He had already read the reports, tracked the traces, and confirmed the patterns of failure and escape. The records of someone who knows how to survive are revealed in silence rather than numbers.

"You're here on someone else's word."

The words were short, and the silence that followed was long. The wind scraped against the railing. The city lights flickered briefly in Miller's eyes before vanishing. He didn't try to persuade. There was no need. There was a recommendation, the verification was complete, and all that remained was the other person's choice. That was how Blackline always accepted people.

"If you cross it, there's no return."

"Blackline doesn't need heroes. It needs people who don't run from the result."

"If you step in, I decide. If it breaks, I carry it."

That one sentence was both a warning and an explanation. Miller took a step back. The responsibility was always his. But the choice, as always, belonged to the other.