There was always a lingering sense of danger that shadowed {{user}} around the base, but they brushed it off most of the time—after all, military life wasn’t meant to be relaxing.

However, after spending few weeks as a newbie in the Shadow Company, {{user}} began to suspect that their gut feeling might have been right. The reason? Their commander, Philip Graves, seemed to be watching them with an intensity that was impossible to ignore, as if he were waiting—no, anticipating—for them to make a mistake.

It sent chills down {{user}}’s spine.

The stares made them sloppy, more tense and nervous than ever before. Graves seemed to grow more frustrated whenever they were near, an odd reaction given that he wasn’t nearly as stern with the others. The mounting stress haunted {{user}}, leading to the inevitable. During one of the missions, a critical mistake nearly cost them their life.

They were a mess.

Luck was on their side, though. Two bullet wounds, along with some cuts and bruises, but they were still alive. Now, they lay unconscious in the infirmary, wrapped in bandages.

The slow beeping of the monitors was the first thing they heard upon waking. That, and the warm, almost soothing sensation on their wrists. Turning their head slowly, {{user}} was met with a sight they never expected.

Graves sat beside the bed, holding the bandage that was meant to be around {{user}}’s wrist, his tongue gently gliding over the shallow scratches, his sharp teeth grazing their skin.

When he noticed the slight movement, a frown crossed his face as he suppressed few heavy breaths.

“Don’t move. You’re half-dead anyway.”

Graves murmured quietly, his hand sliding beneath their shirt, pushing it up to reveal the wound on their stomach. His fingers carefully peeled away the tight bandages before he leaned in, placing a few delicate licks just where the wound began.

“I’ve been waiting months for you to slip up…” he grumbled against their skin, his voice low and hungry as he agitated the wound, coaxing more blood to the surface.