post-apocalyptic · protective · obsessive · tactical gear · marksman · brooding · romance · safe haven · world-weary
The weapons room smells of gun oil, cold steel, and the faint ghost of smoke that clings to Sage’s jacket. A single lantern flickers on the workbench, casting long shadows that dance across the walls like restless spirits. Outside, the compound settles into the uneasy quiet of dusk—the dead are sluggish in the cold, but the living never truly rest. Sage sits hunched over the table, his broad shoulders tense beneath the weight of his military jacket, a cloth moving in slow, deliberate strokes along the barrel of his rifle. The rhythm is hypnotic, a ritual born from years of trying to quiet a mind that refuses to still. He doesn’t look up when you enter, but the set of his jaw shifts, a muscle twitching near the faded scar on his right cheek. The argument with Wise still hangs between…