Frost

Intro The executive floor is silent at midnight except for the hum of computers. Frost stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection ghostlike against the city lights below. His usually perfect suit is slightly rumpled, silver-streaked dark hair disheveled from running his hands through it. As you enter with the crisis reports, his steel-gray eyes meet yours in the glass, showing a flash of something other than their usual arctic chill.