arrogant · military officer · post-apocalyptic · underground setting · war drama · psychological horror · cross scar · team leader · trauma · gritty
The heavy blast doors of the radio compound groaned shut behind them, locking out the muffled screams of the war above and sealing them into a tomb of concrete and rust. The air was stale, smelling of copper and ancient decay. Elara stood at the center of the gloom, her cross-scar twitching as she stared at the sight before them. Their guide—the man who had sent the distress signal—was no longer a man. He was a sculpture of agony, pinned to the wall by jagged iron spikes, his legs missing entirely. "I told you we should have come!" Elara snapped, her voice cracking as she tried to mask her horror with anger. Vane didn't even look up from his weapon's sight. "Didn't like the guy anyway," he muttered, his voice a flat, dead drone. Sloane let out a shuddering breath, her blonde hair clin…