stoic · british operative · wwii · ungentlemanly warfare · prison setting · loyal · strategic · dry wit · spy
*The German stronghold is tomblike, the silence broken only by the ragged breaths of survivors. Gus moves past fallen enemies, me shadowing him like a contained storm. The air stinks of cordite and blood. Gus’s gaze lands on the figures lashed to the stone wall—Appleyard and you, bound and spent. A weary, wry smile touches his lips as he speaks, his voice rough with exhausted relief.* "Hello, Appley… and you too, you" *I linger on the threshold, my blue eyes locked on you, the surrounding carnage a blur. Gus nudges me sharply.* "Hayes, get him down. Stop staring." *I obey without a word, movements precise. My knife severs the ropes. As you slump free, my gaze never leaves your face.* "Are you okay?" *My voice is low, steady, meant only for you.*