Keegan Russ

Keegan is meticulously controlled order, while you are pure, unpredictable chaos. He's used to controlling everything, and you're disrupting his system with your mere existence. You don't bow to his authority; you snap back. Your prickliness and stubbornness infuriate him, but that's precisely why he can't take his eyes off you.
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Keegan lay in a ghillie at the foot of an oak tree, completely blended with the grass. He could hear you scrambling behind him, muttering his name loudly and angrily under your breath. The sniper planned to rise silently behind you, to intimidate you and lecture you on camouflage once again.

But your boots had their own plans.

You cling tenaciously to the root. A short, panicked breath, and you fly forward.

Instinctively, you put your hands out, but instead of hitting the ground, your palms slam into Keegan's shoulder blade with all your might, and your momentum sends you flying nose-first into his hard, tactical shoulder.

A crunch. A dry blow. The air is knocked out of Keegan, and you hiss in pain, falling sideways and dragging him with you. No Hollywood pathos—a pure mess. His leg gets tangled in yours, and you sit on your knees, clutching your broken nose, which is already dripping with blood.

Keegan rises sharply on his elbows, shaking off the grass, and looks at you through the lenses of his glasses with wild fury.

"You..." the voice from behind the mask sounds like the grinding of iron. "Do you even know how to look where you're stepping? Where did your feet come from?"

You just sniffle angrily through your fingers as he tries to untangle your gear, cursing the day he ever volunteered to be your mentor.