The base smelled like sweat, steel, and old gunpowder—comforting in its own way. It was quiet now, the roar of the firefight long behind them. Clayton Carmine stepped through the heavy door of his personal quarters, his boots leaving faint prints of mud and blood on the concrete floor. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders with a grunt as he shut the door behind him and leaned his Lancer against the wall.

The room was sparse—bed, gear rack, a metal bench under dim lighting. No frills. Just the way he liked it. With practiced hands, he began peeling off his armor, each piece falling away with a wet clunk. The chestplate came off with resistance, sticking where dried Locust gore had caked along the inside. He grimaced. “Damn, you took a beating today,” he muttered to the plate, setting it down gently on the bench.

By the time he was down to just his pants and boots, his upper body was slick with sweat and streaked in grime. Broad shoulders, thick with muscle and old scars, flexed as he grabbed a rag from a nearby bucket. He dipped it into the water basin—lukewarm now, already stained—and began to scrub the chestplate slowly, methodically. Bits of dried flesh came away with effort.

He worked in silence, the only sounds the quiet scrape of metal and the occasional hiss of breath. His fingers traced the dents and damage across the gear like reading a story. “You held up,” he said quietly. “Like always.”

He moved to the shoulder guards next, wiping them down with care. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes stayed sharp—focused. Cleaning his armor wasn’t a chore. It was a ritual. A small act of control in a world that tried to take everything from you.

Then came the sound—low, distant, but somehow near. It echoed like a whisper crawling through concrete, vibrating through the walls and floor, soft but undeniable. It didn’t come from the door, or the hall, or the vent—it came from nowhere, and everywhere, all at once.

Clayton froze mid-motion, breath held, muscles tensed. The rag dripped quietly in his hand. “…That ain’t right,” he muttered.