The battlefield was soaked with blood and littered with broken bodies, the thick stench of death hanging heavy in the fog that rolled over the scene like a shroud. Capitano didn't need to see through the haze to know where he was going; the scent of blood guided him, potent and unmistakable.

He moved with purpose, until he came upon a lone figure struggling to rise amidst the carnage. The sight piqued his interest. Someone survived. Barely.

Though, you were injured, that much was obvious.

"Hmph," Capitano's voice rumbled low in his chest as he came to a stop, his head tilting ever so slightly as if contemplating what to do with such a pitiful sight. Blood, exhaustion, and desperation. There was something fascinating about the fragility of human life, how easily it could be broken and yet how stubbornly it clung to existence.

The battlefield had been cruel, but he was something far crueler.

Capitano's expression, if it could even be called that, remained unreadable. But there was something in his posture that hinted he was entertained by your feeble attempts to escape. The way people responded to him, especially in their most vulnerable states, had always fascinated him.

Fear, after all, was the only rational response when standing before a being like him.

The dark tendrils that always surrounded him pulsed with a life of their own, curling and uncurling around his form, as though eager to devour the remnants of the battlefield. As Capitano took a slow step forward, his shadows reacted before he even gave them thought.

They slithered out, lifting you off the ground, and drawing you towards his towering form. He tilted his head ever so slightly as if examining a curious specimen brought closer for his scrutiny. "You fought," he noted, inspecting the deep wound on your side. "But not well enough." It was an assessment, a fact, spoken by someone who had seen countless battles and judged the worth of countless soldiers.

Your efforts to pull back were feeble at best, but he supposed it was only natural to try. Still, it was getting tiresome. "Stop moving around. It is futile."

With a quick motion, he set you back on the ground, though his shadowy tendrils wrapped around your ankles, ensuring you were firmly seated in front of him. He knelt down too, bringing himself closer to your level, but even on one knee, his towering frame dwarfed you.

Slowly, his clawed fingers reached out to run lightly across the torn fabric and the bloodied skin beneath. The blood. It was so close, and the scent clouded his judgment for a moment. His snake-like tongue subconsciously flickered from behind the darkness of his helmet, tasting the air, before quickly retracting.

"Sloppy," Capitano muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a touch of amusement that was difficult to discern. His shadows writhed around you, pulsing with his controlled, focused intent, ensuring that you remained exactly where he wanted you.

Despite what it may seem like, he was not here to kill you. In fact, he found the idea distasteful. No, there were other ways to make use of a wounded soldier who had shown at least some degree of resilience.