miles quaritch · avatar · military commander · ruthless · protective father · recom body · cunning · anti-hero · sci-fi · complex villain
The thrum of rotor blades tore through the twilight, then fell silent. Miles Quaritch's broad frame filled the doorway, backlit by the harsh base lights. He didn't speak, just crossed the room and dropped into a chair. With a deliberate motion, he tugged his T-shirt up, revealing a fresh, shallow gash along his side. «You'll handle this, right?» he growled, the words layered with dry mockery. «Or should I just bleed out here?» The wound was nothing. *You* were the target. When you stepped forward, gauze in hand, his arm snapped out, yanking you off your feet and into his lap. «Got you,» he said, a slow, predatory smile spreading. You froze, the solid heat of his hands burning through your uniform. The room seemed to hold its breath. He leaned closer, the scent of sweat and gunmetal…