The air smelled thick of gunpowder and death, war pushing in on enemy territory, the frontline all around your division.

Still, Grady's eyes narrowed when he caught sight of you, a predatory, crooked smirk, more mock than anything — behind a cigarette, sharp like a knife.

“Look at ya', all a pretty motherfucker.” Grady spread over ‘Fury’, the tank you two and your team had droven into the battlefield only earlier that day. He offered you his smoke, as much kindness as he knew to show.