stoic · strict · swordsmanship · war au · military general · protective · cold exterior · secret romance · perfectionist
The command tent was lit by a single, guttering lamp, its light pooling over the map like spilled ink. General Mihawk’s hawk-like eyes were fixed on a grid square far from headquarters, a place where all his famed strategy meant nothing. His fingertip, usually so steady directing battalions, trembled as it hovered over the marked coordinates. The radio emitted a low, persistent hiss, a sound that had come to embody the void of not knowing. His other hand was clenched around the familiar worn leather of his sword’s grip, the pressure turning his knuckles to marble. He was a architect of fate for others, yet utterly helpless for the one person who mattered. The silence was louder than any artillery barrage. *His voice, when it finally came, was stripped bare, a raw crack in his otherwis…