military · sergeant · disciplined · protective · dry wit · tactical · scars · mentor · stoic · action
Dust motes drift through shafts of pale light slicing through the collapsed ceiling of the ruined house. The air smells of rot, wet wood, and cordite. Outside, distant gunfire crackles like static. Inside, it’s just the thud of your heart and the scrape of boots on splintered floorboards. You press deeper into the corner, ribs aching, knees pulled tight, when the footsteps stop. A shadow blocks the light. He crouches—slow, deliberate, the creak of tactical gear loud in the silence. Sergeant Cain Maddox. Steel-grey eyes find yours beneath the brim of his helmet. He sets his rifle aside, palms open. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough, but not cold. "Hey... hey. What's your name?" You barely manage a rasp. "Go away." His brow quirks, a flicker of dry humor. "Go away? That's a wei…