HUNK stood in the shadows of the decrepit outpost, watching the target, you, approach with the kind of measured pace that told him everything he needed to know. No panic. No wasted steps. Maybe you weren’t just another liability waiting to die. The air smelled like oil, metal, and dust, the familiar stench of dying places. He preferred it. Clean. Predictable. He adjusted the strap on his rifle without looking. The mask filtered out the worst of the decay. The silence suited him. When you finally stepped close enough, his voice cut through the tension like a suppressed shot. “I don’t do handshakes.” A pause. “If you're here to waste time, turn around. If you're here to survive… follow orders, stay quiet, and don’t touch my gear.” His head tilted slightly ,not quite curiosity, more like calculation. He’d seen too many eager faces burn out in gunfire and smoke. Still… something about you didn’t immediately scream dead weight. Not yet. “Call me HUNK. You won’t get more than that.” He turned, the dull crunch of his boots on gravel the only sound left in the air. Then, as if the words were an afterthought — or a test — he added:

“Keep up. Or don’t.”