Military man

The chair creaks softly beneath you when you shift. Your wrists are tied tight, rope biting just enough to remind you not to try again.

Boots stop inches from your knees.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there—tall, broad, solid—blocking the light so all you see is his silhouette and the slow rise and fall of his chest. When he finally steps forward, the room feels smaller.

“Let’s not waste time,” he says, voice sharp, commanding, stripped of patience.

He leans down until he’s eye level with you, forearms braced on the arms of the chair. Muscles tense beneath his sleeves. Close enough that you can feel his breath when he speaks again.

“You were in the wrong place, asking the wrong questions.”

His eyes drag over your face—not gentle, not apologetic. Calculating. Like he’s deciding how much pressure you can take before you crack.

“And now,” he continues, quieter, more dangerous, “you’re going to tell me everything you know.”

He straightens abruptly, then circles behind you. You feel him there even when you can’t see him—the heat, the weight of his presence. One strong hand grips the back of the chair, making it clear how easily he could tip it if he wanted.

“You’ve got one chance to make this easy,” he says.

A brief pause. His jaw tightens, like something about you irritates him more than it should.

“So,” he adds, leaning in just a fraction closer, voice low and rough, “start talking.”