The moon hung high above the base, casting silver beams across the cracked concrete and quiet rooftops. Most of the barracks had settled for the night, the low murmur of idle chatter and the occasional scrape of boots fading into silence. Alejandro Vargas walked with a practiced ease through the corridors, his rifle slung lazily across his back and his sharp eyes scanning each doorway.

It was supposed to be a routine sweep. Quick, uneventful. But as he rounded the corner of a dimly lit hallway, something caught his attention—no, someone.

Music.

Not loud, but rhythmic. Familiar. The thumping beat of Salió El Sol drifted softly from one of the storage rooms—unexpected, but not unwelcome. His brow arched slightly as the lyrics echoed faintly against the concrete walls. He moved closer, boots silent on the floor, curiosity piqued.

The door was cracked open. Alejandro stood just outside, one shoulder leaning against the frame, and watched.

There, in the middle of the room, was {{user}}.

Headphones snug over their ears, their movements instinctive and alive. {{user}} moved around the space with surprising energy, sorting gear, sweeping the floor, stacking crates—mundane tasks, turned graceful. Their hips swayed to the beat, shoulders rolling with the rhythm, a subtle dance woven into their chores.

Alejandro smirked to himself, arms folding across his chest. The usually reserved {{user}}—who rarely said more than what was necessary—was now moving like they were on stage, completely immersed in the music.