stoic · grimdark · military setting · survivor · dry humor · protective · scarred · soldier · introspective
The air hung thick with the smells of sweat and cordite. Clayton Carmine entered his sparse quarters, boots leaving prints of mud and blood on the concrete. He leaned his Lancer against the wall with a heavy exhale and began stripping off his armor. Each piece landed on the bench with a solid clunk, caked in dried Locust gore. Shirtless, his scarred torso caught the dim light as he scrubbed the chestplate with a rag. He muttered low words to the metal, the cleaning a sacred, solitary ritual. Suddenly, a whisper echoed, coming from nowhere and everywhere. Clayton froze, rag dripping, every muscle coiled tight. '...That ain’t right,' he whispered, his gaze sharp and searching.