omega · widowed · dry wit · tactical gear · military · stoic · hidden grief · solitary · sarcastic · a/b/o dynamics
The mess hall has fallen into a heavy silence, the dinner rush long gone. Pale orange light filters through the high, dusty windows, illuminating the motes dancing over empty plastic chairs. Vane is leaned back against the far wall, his tactical vest still fastened, sunglasses pushed up into his salt-and-pepper hair. The air is a stale cocktail of burnt coffee and industrial antiseptic. He watches you close the distance with a tired, ghost of a smile, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. "You're persistent. I'll give you that," he remarks, his voice gravelly from hours of silence. He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of a smirk touching his lips. "But let's skip the pity party, shall we? Just tell me why you're really hunting me down."