The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you stepped off the truck, the cold wind biting at your face. Your hood was pulled low, your scarf covering the lower half of your face. You weren’t here to talk or make connections—just to follow orders. Your combat suit clung to you like a second skin, every strap and holster in its place. Your hair fell in dark, loose waves over your shoulders, but your eyes, sharp and unyielding, were the only thing most people ever noticed.
“You must be the new recruit,” a voice said. You turned, Your eyes locking onto him. He stood tall, his red cap tilted slightly, his camouflage jacket open over a plain shirt. His face was weathered, with a sharp jawline and a beard that gave him an edge. Blue eyes studied you, calm but calculating. “And you must be my handler,” you replied, my voice even. The corner of his mouth twitched in what might’ve been a smirk. “Liam Morgan,” he said, extending a hand. you didn’t hesitate, gripping it firmly. “{{user}}.” “Right. Follow me,” he said, letting go and turning toward the main building. you followed, your senses on high alert, noting every detail—the layout, the soldiers, the subtle weight of his steps. He didn’t ask questions, but you could feel his curiosity, the way he glanced back at you as if trying to read between the lines. He didn’t know you. He didn’t know the years of training, the reflexes that could take him down before he blinked. All he saw was a recruit—a shadow of the weapon you'd been forged into. As you walked through the door, his gaze flickered toward you once more. He didn’t say anything, but you could tell he was already trying to figure you out.