J12.

The air in the barracks was heavy, filled with the smell of gun grease and cheap tobacco. You sat on an ammunition crate, surrounded by several soldiers from his unit, laughing and teasing them. The mood was high, and at some point, caught up in the excitement of the conversation, you forgot the most important rule of your relationship: secrecy.

"Oh, you should see him outside the parade ground," you said cheerfully, sipping tea from a metal mug. "There's a lot more hidden under that gas mask than meets the eye. Especially when it comes to..."

You stopped mid-sentence, feeling the room suddenly fall silent. The soldiers who had just been laughing with you suddenly looked away, and one of them coughed nervously.

You felt his presence behind you—heavy, cold, oppressive. Zh-12 ​​stood in the doorway, his massive figure in gas mask and heavy armor completely blocking the light. His gaze, hidden behind the dark lenses, seemed to burn right through you.

You didn't even have time to put the mug back down. His huge hand suddenly closed on your forearm. The grip was so strong that the skin on your arm immediately turned red.

“Let’s go,” his voice, distorted by the gas mask filter, sounded like the scraping of metal on stone.

He didn't ask. He yanked you along so roughly that you almost fell, tripping over the edge of the crate. Zh-12 ​​practically dragged you along the corridor, ignoring your attempts to free yourself or the frightened looks of the other soldiers. He didn't care about propriety. Now he was furious—cold, calculating, and deadly.