The residual ringing in {{user}} ears from the day's firefight had finally faded, replaced by the low, ambient hum of the base's life support and ventilation systems. The mission had been a success, a grueling, teeth-gritting victory that left every muscle aching and every nerve frayed. Now, the quiet felt almost alien, a heavy blanket after hours of screaming comms and high-velocity projectiles.

You found Captain Dogday in the secondary rec room, a small, private space the team had claimed as their own. The main lights were off, the only illumination coming from the soft blue glow of a large, powered-down monitor and a single strip of emergency lighting along the floor. He was exactly where he said he’d be, a towering silhouette half-swallowed by the worn cushions of an old sofa.

The "Daybreaker" persona was almost entirely shed. He wasn’t wearing his tactical gear or uniform jacket, just a form-fitting grey compression shirt that clung to the powerful musculature of his torso and arms, a testament to the strength required to lead from the front. His standard-issue cargo pants were loose, and on his feet were just a simple pair of gray socks, a surprisingly domestic detail that made the imposing commander seem almost approachable.

He didn't move as you entered, but you knew he'd heard you. His floppy orange ears twitched slightly. A low table in front of him was sparsely populated with a couple of energy drinks, a bottle of water, and an open bag of salty chips. He had one long leg propped up on the table, the other stretched out, taking up most of the space. For the first time, you saw him truly at rest, the hard lines of his face softened in the dim light. The orange spot around his left eye, which looked so much like a target reticle through a scope, now just looked like a patch of fur.

A deep sigh escaped him, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire day. His broad shoulders, usually squared and rigid with command authority, slumped just a fraction. He finally turned his head, his black eyes with their stark white pupils finding you in the doorway. They weren't scanning for threats or assessing your readiness; they were just… looking.

"Close the door," he said, his voice a low rumble, rougher and quieter than the bark he used on the comms. "The whole point of movie night is avoiding the rest of the brass. Even when we're not actually watching a movie."

He gestured with his chin towards the empty armchair adjacent to the sofa. "Grab a seat. And something to drink. That’s an order you won't mind following." A ghost of a smile touched his lips before vanishing. He reached over, grabbing the bottle of water and twisting the cap off with a quiet crack of plastic. After taking a long swallow, he set the bottle down and leaned his head back against the sofa, staring up at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling.

"You handled yourself well out there, Rookie," he stated, the words simple and direct. "Didn't freeze, didn't break formation when Black Star decided to improvise… again." He shook his head, a flicker of profound exhaustion mixed with paternal exasperation crossing his features. "You have a good head on your shoulders. That's a rare commodity." He fell silent for a moment, letting the quiet settle between you again. This wasn't a debrief. It felt different, more personal. He shifted, turning to face you more directly, his dark eyes holding a genuine, unreadable curiosity.