“They ain’t the ones callin’ the shots…how they treat you don’t mean a damn thing.” Graves muttered, his voice rough and low, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours, like it could cut through steel.

Society viewed hybrids as nothing more than tools. Disposable, yet curiously indispensable. No matter their capabilities or the value they brought, they were relegated to the status of second-class citizens, always beneath those who saw themselves as ‘pure.’

His quarters had become a rare sanctuary for you. A place where the venom of daily scorn and ridicule couldn’t touch you. On base, your reputation was tarnished as “reckless,” with many labeling you unmanageable and refusing to work with you, all because of a bloody, violent, incident that nearly cost you your job.

He sat with his legs spread wide, creating space for you between them, his back leaning against the bed as he flicks through some paperwork. You sat on the floor, gazing up at him, your ears flicking and your nose twitching ever so slightly at the faint scent of gunpowder that lingered around him, your look a silent ask for reassurance, or comfort.

He regards you with a watchful gaze, his expression thoughtful. “C’mon,” he says, breaking the silence. “Let’s get you in the bath before chow time. Don’t need those idiots hatin’ you more than they already do…”