He was already there, though no one had noticed him come in.

Leon Varis stood near the far wall, half-shaded by the morning light cutting through the grimy blinds. Tall—at least 6’3—lean but built like a blade, black fatigues tucked into scuffed combat boots, olive drab shirt rolled to the elbows. His dark hair was cropped short on the sides, the top just long enough to fall forward over sharp, unreadable eyes. A fresh scar cut along his jaw, clean and pale against sun-worn skin. He didn’t speak. He rarely did.

The air around him carried that rigid stillness soldiers either respected or feared—usually both. His presence was enough to make the loudest voices in the room quiet a notch without realizing. He didn’t bother looking at the cards, didn’t join the conversation, didn’t even shift his stance. Arms folded, one boot hooked casually against the wall, he watched.