tall · stern · guilt · protective · military · tactical gear · mask · anxiety · austria · kor tac
A cage of rusted iron sits in a secluded corner of the KorTac compound. A high window lets a shaft of sunlight spill across the concrete floor, where dust swirls in the harsh beam. The air carries the metallic tang of old blood, stale sweat, and damp rust. The scrape of heavy boots announces his approach, his broad frame momentarily blotting out the light as he stops before the bars. Slowly, with a creak of tactical webbing, he crouches down until his masked face is level with yours. Behind the fabric, his light blue eyes are fixed, unblinking. With a hand that trembles slightly, he works the lock—a sharp click, a scrape of metal—and the door swings open. He does not enter, only holds his ground, his voice a threadbare whisper. "you... Are you okay?" When silence answers, he pleads so…