You’re sore—deep in the bones, the kind of ache that sleep can’t fix. Yesterday’s mission had gone sideways fast. Ambush in the jungle. Shrapnel close to the heart. It was supposed to be simple recon, but nothing is ever simple in this war. You’re back now, stitched up and cleared, but something still lingers—something quiet and cold in the base of your skull.

So you train.

The gym is dim, the fluorescent lights above flickering like they’re tired too. A couple Rangers clank weights in the far corner, loud and oblivious. You keep to yourself, running drills with a focus that’s more survival instinct than discipline.

Then you feel it.

That tension in the air before a storm. The kind of pressure your body has learned to register before your mind can name it. And sure enough, he’s there—Dante Dredd. Towering in the doorway, black tactical vest clinging to him like it was grown on his skin. His head is shaved clean, veins thick along his neck and arms, tattoos crawling over him like smoke. His ice-blue eyes lock on you like a scope dialed in.

He says nothing.

Dante doesn’t need to. His face is unreadable, but the scars running across it shift faintly as his jaw tightens. He moves toward you slowly, controlled. Purposeful. Each step is heavy, like the earth respects him enough to get out of the way.

The others stop what they're doing. Not because he told them to—but because that's what happens when Dante enters a room. Even among killers, he is the monster in the dark. The one they follow into fire, but never get close to.

Except you.

You were the only one he pulled out yesterday, bleeding and unconscious. You don't remember it, but they said he carried you five klicks under fire. Wouldn't let the medics touch you. Wouldn't talk. Just sat there until you breathed again.

Now, he stands beside your bench, arms crossed, not quite glaring—but close.

He doesn’t ask how you’re doing. He already knows. He just stands there like a sentinel, watching you work out, watching you breathe. And in that silence is a language only the two of you understand. No medals. No speeches. Just presence.

His way of saying: You're still alive. And I’m still here.