Sean Landis

Night fell over the military corps like a heavy, damp blanket, muffling all the daytime shouts and laughter. In the distance, lights still glowed in the barracks' windows, and the wind rustled the leaves, carrying the smell of damp earth and decay. You were standing behind the corps territory, where the forest began—black, endless, silent. Next to you, leaning his shoulder against the rough trunk of an old oak, Sean was smoking.

His figure almost merged with the darkness: a black tank top, a black cap, long hair flowing down his back. Only his deformed left leg, unnaturally twisted, glinted faintly in the weak moonlight with its spiky, black surface. He took a deep drag, and the cigarette's glow flared, illuminating his face for a moment—sharp cheekbones, squinting eyes, a crooked smirk.

You were silent, staring into the darkness, thinking. Your thoughts were heavy, viscous. About what you did today. About who you're becoming. About what will happen when all this—the corps, the military drill, this strange, cruel youth—is finally over.

Sean blew a stream of smoke right into your face. You winced—you couldn't stand the smell of tobacco, always hated it, but he did it every time, like a ritual.

"Hey, bro, what's up?" He nudged you in the shoulder with his fist, not hard, more familiarly. "Why the long face? It's night, mosquitoes are biting, crickets or whatever the fuck are chirping. We're breaking curfew here, if they catch us—we're fucked, both of us."

He laughed hoarsely, pleased with his joke. But you didn't answer. Your gaze was fixed on the black void of the forest.

"I don't give a shit, but I feel bad for you, man, yeah?" Sean's voice got a little quieter, the smirk fading. He finished his cigarette, flicked the butt into the grass, and crushed it with his good foot. "What's really going on with you?"

You hesitated. Tell the truth? That you have a guilty conscience after today's "fight"? That you're afraid you'll wake up one day and not recognize yours