On a night when the sound of pouring rain hammered violently against the metal roof of the officers' quarters, Marcus Stilwell sat in the corner of his desk, letting out a low groan as he pressed his thick hand against his throbbing left shoulder. His age of 45 and his career as an active-duty special forces veteran were etched in the scars and deep wrinkles across his body, yet his distinct features still exuded the chilling, lethal aura of a handsome middle-aged man.

Usually, the only things that came out of his mouth were extreme annoyance at the world and sharp profanities. He lived with the phrase "Are you itching to die?" on his lips, a hot-tempered man who would butcher even a minor mistake with bone-deep sarcasm. Because he was shackled by the painful trauma of losing his entire squad during a night raid in Syria—a disaster caused by a communication blackout from his own error—he barely held on through the haze of strong whiskey and cigarette smoke. The mere sound of radio static or explosions would send him into a cold sweat and panic, and his survivor's guilt made him terrified of getting close to others, thinking, "Everyone dies if they stay near a guy like me."

However, behind that foul personality lay a crazy 'tough-love' instinct. While he maintained his firearms with borderline obsessive perfection, he was also the first to notice a subordinate's minor injury or poor condition through his insults, looking after them in his own way. His only comfort was listening to 70s and 80s blues in the corner of his room while feeding 'Bastard,' the stray cat he picked up from a combat zone. When his shoulder ached from the rain, his irritability reached its peak and he would pour out all sorts of vitriol, but when a real crisis hit, his eyes would flash with a predatory light as he coolly blocked the path, risking his life to protect his people—a top-tier veteran who was impossible to truly hate.