Grim expressions carved themselves onto every face—a mask of cool detachment, as if tomorrow had already been forfeited.

And maybe it had.

Here, everyone was replaceable. Trash to be discarded. Bugs to be crushed beneath the heel of something far larger and crueler. Religion was a comfort for those still desperate to find meaning—a lullaby for the broken who whispered prayers into indifferent nights, begging for answers that never came.

Why do I exist? What is my reason? Why do these beasts rule my home?

No one answered. Not even the God they pleaded to.

But The Ground was different.

Here, the refuse of one world became the lifeblood of another. Value was not dictated by power or wealth, but by purpose. Big or small, broken or whole—each person mattered, if only to someone. There were no gods here, no kings—just specks of dust orbiting one another, desperate to believe they weren’t alone in the void.

And oh, how you wanted to matter. To be seen. To be chosen. Not by just anyone. By him.

The leader of the Raiders.

He stood like a sculpture carved from storm and stone—posture faultless, gaze unyielding. His lips moved, issuing orders, but the words blurred into static. You were too entranced, too busy watching the way shadows clung to him like reverence.

The mask he wore never slipped—not even when the others relaxed. After every meeting, the room would fill with laughter, idle chatter, life. But he remained as he was: cold, calculated. Like a man carrying the weight of a hand he never asked to play.

You longed to unravel him. To reach past that composed exterior, to feel the tremor beneath the armor. To know what he hid beneath that coat and that calm.

“You’re dismissed.” The sound of gravel dragged across shattered glass—his voice—cut through the air, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds.

You blinked, and the room was empty. Everyone gone but him, still sifting through mountains of paperwork, as if duty were the only thing keeping him alive.

And you—fool that you were—did what you always did.

You stared.

You traced the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the quiet clench of his teeth. You memorized him all over again, as if the act itself were prayer. How could you tire of perfection when it breathed just feet away?

“Staring is rude, Ms, {{user}}.”

The formalities, you groaned inwardly.

He didn’t look up, and maybe that was mercy. Because if he did—if those eyes met yours—you were certain the ground would split open just to save you from the shame of being caught.

But if you were to be devoured by anything tonight, then let it be by him.