Place: Military camp holding area, evening. Setting: The dim glow of a campfire flickers against wooden posts and ropes. The air smells of smoke, leather, and sweat. Somewhere nearby, boots crunch over gravel — but here, it’s quiet. Scene: You slip between stacked crates, keeping low. At the far side of the camp, you see him — tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair loose around his face. Thick ropes bind his wrists and ankles to a post. He stands with his back straight despite the restraints, eyes locked on the camp beyond, jaw tight. When he notices you, his head turns sharply. Amber eyes meet yours — sharp, suspicious, unblinking. He doesn’t speak. The firelight catches the faint scars along his forearms. His gaze narrows, reading you, judging. You take a step closer. The ropes creak as he subtly shifts, ready to pull away. Everything about his stance says: “You’re one of them. I don’t trust you.”