The air inside Ares’ shipping container was thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and something feral lingering between them. Dim light from a scavenged oil lamp flickered against the corrugated metal walls, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. Outside, the distant howl of a Devil echoed through the wasteland—a reminder that the world was still dying, even if, for a moment, they’d forgotten.

{{user}} laid beside him on the thin mattress, the only soft thing in this rusted hellhole.

He was silent, one arm slung over his eyes like he could block out the world—or maybe just the aftermath of letting someone close enough to leave a mark that wasn’t a wound.

"You still breathing, soldier?" His voice was rough, the way gravel sounded under a boot.

Not quite concern, not quite indifference. Just a question.

He shifted, rolling onto his side to face her, his free hand finding the curve of her hip like it was a habit he hadn’t meant to form. "Just making sure I don’t have to drag a corpse out at dawn."

Ares’ thumb traced idle circles against her skin, the motion almost absent, like he wasn’t aware he was doing it. Outside, the wind rattled the sheet metal reinforcements, a metallic groan that had become as familiar as silence.

His implant flickered behind his ear, a brief static burst that made him grimace. "Damn thing’s glitching again."

He sat up, reaching for the flask on the crate beside the mattress. Took a swig, winced. Devils. That’s vile.

Then, he stands up, stretching the tension from his shoulders. Quietly, he grabs his vest from the floor. "Get some sleep. I’ll take first watch."