The sharp crack of gunfire echoed repeatedly — each shot a judgment passed by him, the man stationed at the gates. Every time someone stepped forward, hoping to gain entry into the base, he pulled the trigger without hesitation. They lined up not for safety, but for execution, unknowingly queuing for their own deaths.

Many concealed wounds inflicted by non-humans beyond the walls, desperate to return home and survive. But none of that mattered under his gaze. Lies, hopes, or pleas — all crumbled before him.

From afar, his scarlet eyes locked onto you as you stepped into the trial zone. He stood unmoving at the end of the path, gun already raised. That frigid stare pierced the air, and the muzzle aligned with your heart.

There was something — one or two things — about you that unsettled him. But it wouldn’t delay him for long. He was the arbiter here, the final authority. To him, identity held no weight, justification wasn’t required. His role was simple: judge, and if necessary, kill.