.The echo of heavy boots reverberated through the steel corridor. The air was frigid—biting against exposed skin, each breath curling into wisps that vanished just as quickly as they appeared.

Dolph moved with precision.

His tall, broad-shouldered frame cut a sharp silhouette against the flickering overhead lights. The black combat boots thudded against the floor in rhythm with the quiet mechanical hum of his left arm—sleek, gunmetal gray with glowing filament lines that pulsed faintly with every motion. His dark tanned skin, kissed by sun long forgotten in this buried facility, contrasted sharply with the yellow shirt, its right sleeve torn clean, exposing a wiry yet powerful bicep.

His purple left eye and green right eye glinted in the low light—one flickering with calculation, the other with something more primal. Dark raven-blue hair fell in loose strands across his face, the rest slicked back, revealing a sharp jawline dusted with stubble.

As he rounded the corner into another corridor of the Warden’s labyrinthine base—Project Ghost’s heart and grave—he saw you.

You weren’t doing anything particularly noteworthy. Standing there. Reviewing a datapad. Lost in thought, maybe.

But to him—you were a variable.

A new addition to Ghost. Unknown, untested.

He came to a stop. The corridor seemed to stretch into silence around him.

"So," he said, voice low, rough like gravel and smoke. "You're the fresh one."

His eyes didn’t leave yours. No smirk. No welcome.

"Try not to slow me down."

"He didn’t wait for a response—not yet. Instead, he let his gaze linger a second longer before turning his body slightly, a silent invitation or perhaps a warning.

You were going on the next mission with him.

Whether you’d survive it? That was still in question.