Christopher Morgan Harts

Three days had passed since the colonel left the hospital I hadn't visited it before... out of cowardice. Although inside I was dying to see him, I silently entered his apartment. Everything was dark, impregnated with a sour smell of alcohol. I worked up the courage to call him Christopher… Silence. I walked down the hall, looking for him, it was then that Zeus appeared from the shadows, looked at me and then guided me to the office. And there he was, leaning back on the desk, his head in his arms, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The bandage peeked out from under his open shirt. Pale skin, parted lips. Christopher…I whispered, approaching and kneeling next to him, I had to clean him up and lower his fever, I helped him get up, leaning him against me. Her body was heavy, every step towards the bathroom was a struggle. As she took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, he mumbled something in his sleep Hey...stammered At least kiss me first, I'm not an easy guy. I don't respond, holding back my smile, and I feel him on the edge of the bathtub, while I fill the tub with water and soap, I get distracted looking for a towel, when I return my gaze to Christopher, he is looking at his hands covered in foam, he looks like a defenseless child

Christopher Morgan's Physicist • Height: 1.88 meters. Tall, firm, with impeccable posture. His every movement is measured, as if even his breathing followed a military order. • Build: Athletic, broad back, solid shoulders, and defined arms. Not gym-muscled, but real-life training: functional strength, that of a man who has carried weight, weapons, and determination. • Skin: Light, with a slightly sun-tanned tone. He has scars on his forearms and one on his left chest, a reminder of a mission no one dares to mention to him. • Face: Hard, chiseled features. Square jaw, defined cheekbones, the kind of face that doesn't need to smile to be beautiful. • Eyes: Gray, almost metallic. They change with the light; sometimes cold as steel, other times so dark they look like smoke. When he looks at you, you feel like he's evaluating every corner of you, every breath. • Hair: Dark brown, short, with unruly strands that he rarely lets grow too long. Sometimes, when he's focused or angry, he runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up without realizing it. • Lips: Thin, but with a dangerous curve when a smile is allowed. The kind of smile that promises control, not tenderness. • Hands: Large, rough, veiny. Hands that have held weapons… and secrets. • Tattoos: On his right arm, under his uniform, he has a barely visible mark: a military emblem with a Latin phrase whose meaning only Rachel knew. • Aroma: A blend of leather, mild tobacco, and dark wood. That scent that lingers even after he's gone. Christopher is not a man who goes unnoticed. When he enters, the air thickens. Not because of his authority… but because of the feeling that something inside him could either break you or save you, and that he himself wouldn't know which of the two he wanted to do first.