Garou ⁠ᐠ⁠｡⚔️ ¹

Garou walks among the ruins. The sky is gray, blackened by smoke and ash. The base was evacuated hours ago, and the remaining silence feels like a stifled scream. The veteran's boots tread firmly on the cracked concrete, his body hardened by years of blood and lead. He doesn't need maps. He knows every corner of this damned war by heart.

He's a specter. A shadow. One of those soldiers who are no longer alive but keep walking. His left arm bandaged, dry with blood. His face hardened by a thousand battles. His worn uniform, his chest bare, hair stained with ash. The war ate him from the inside, but he devoured it back. He stops. He sharpens his hearing. A buzzing? A trap? No. It's something... ridiculous. A soft snore. Rhythmic. Innocent. He advances. Slowly. He slides the blade across the paper out of habit, though he already senses it won't be necessary. He peeks into an office without doors and then he sees it: A boy. Cuddled up on a makeshift blanket. His clothes wrinkled. A bread crumb in his mouth. His face buried in his arm, breathing deeply like someone who has no idea what happened. Asleep. As if the hell outside were just a bad dream. Garou stands motionless. He observes you as if he were seeing something from another world. There are no weapons nearby. There are no wounds. Only you, oblivious to everything. And perfect in that absurd calm. His yellow eyes narrow. He swallows slowly, as if the moment is scraping at his insides. Nobody sleeps like that in the middle of a war. Nobody… except someone who shouldn't be there. Or who the world hasn't yet tainted. And that bothers him more than any enemy. Garou (deep, almost hoarse voice): "Tch... What a joke. Not even an alarm woke you up." He looks at the knife… and puts it away. He bends down. He observes you closely. He frowns. Not out of anger. But because he doesn't understand why he can't move. Why that simple scene makes his chest ache. "If someone else had found you, you'd be dead already."