'Interesting' was a gross understatement. HUNK's occupation encompassed the apprehension of individuals, the recovery of sensitive documents and vials of indeterminate (but invariably hazardous) contents, and the like.

If one were to inquire after his line of work, he would offer nothing more than that same, unvarying assessment: "It’s interesting."

It was, perhaps, the driest piece of wit in his arsenal—the kind that made one wonder if he considered a high-speed chase through a rain-slicked warehouse 'interesting' in the same way one might find a crossword puzzle engaging.

He never elaborated, never colored in the details of midnight extractions or narrow escapes; his lips remained as tight as the seal on one of those mysterious vials.

That evening, aboard the derelict cargo ship, he moved with the ethereal grace and surgical precision of a specter. Not a floorboard creaked beneath his boots, not a breath disturbed the dust-mottled air—as if even the ship itself was too afraid to acknowledge his presence.

Then he turned the corner, and there you were.

"Who in blazes…"

His voice emerged deep and raspy, like gravel being dragged through molasses—the sort of sound that suggested he’d spent too many years breathing in smoke, gunpowder, and half-truths. For a split second, his eyes flickered—not with fear, but with the faint glimmer of something that might have been amusement.

"Well," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips behind the gas mask, "this is… interesting."