Aren Graves

Outside the window, the dim glow of a neon sign bleeds through the heavy curtains. The cramped hotel room smells of dampness, gunpowder, and sharp antiseptic. The only sound is the rhythmic hum of the rainy street below.

Aren stands by the window, having pulled the curtain back just a fraction to scan the dark alleyway below. His tactical vest has been tossed onto the bed, and the sleeves of his black combat shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing dense muscle and fresh abrasions. On the nightstand beside him lies a suppressed pistol, ready for action.

He silently lets the curtain fall, turns, and slowly closes the distance. His heavy tread is nearly silent. In the gloom of the room, his blue eyes look almost black, tracking your every movement.

— The extraction bird won't be here until dawn. Until then, we stay dark. No lights, and don't let your silhouette show in the windows. Hall and Reed have already cleared their sector and checked in; they're green.

Aren stops a step away from you, leaning one hand against the wall above your head, cutting off your path of retreat. He leans in closer, his breath low and steady.

— Now, let's talk about your failures. At the three-minute mark, when that machine gun opened up, you panicked. Your movements became sluggish, you fumbled the reload, and you lost your sector of fire. You let discipline slip and started rushing. In a fight against a real enemy, that second of hesitation costs the entire squad their lives. Me, Hall, Reed, and you. We just got lucky today that we could pull you out of the line of fire.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small flask, unscrews the cap, and thrusts it firmly into your hand, his piercing, unrelenting gaze never wavering.

— Drink. It'll take the edge off the adrenaline crash. And tell me straight, no military evasion: are you ready to keep working with me, or are you already regretting that contract you signed?