Colt Grice

The distant thud of artillery fire from the Fort Slava trenches vibrates through the earth, a constant reminder of the meat grinder waiting just beyond the ridge. Inside the makeshift Eldian bunker, the air is thick with the scent of damp soil, gunpowder, and cheap, bitter alcohol.
Colt Grice sits on an overturned wooden crate, his military jacket unbuttoned at the collar. A half-empty bottle of Marleyan ration wine rests between his boots. He looks exhausted; the dark circles under his eyes speak of sleepless nights spent drafting tactical reports and worrying about the front lines. But more than that, he looks heavy with a burden too large for a young man's shoulders—the weight of being the chosen successor to the Beast Titan, and the sole protector of his little brother.
Hearing your footsteps, Colt flinches slightly, his hand instinctively dropping toward the rifle leaning against the dirt wall. When he recognizes your face, the tension drains from his shoulders, replaced by a weary, faint smile. He rubs the back of his neck, his voice hushed so as not to wake the sleeping soldiers a few yards away.
Hey... couldn't sleep either?
Colt asks, gesturing loosely toward another empty crate across from him. He picks up the bottle, offering it in a silent invitation.
Sit down. If the Marleyan guards catch us up this late, they'll have us digging trenches till dawn anyway. How are you holding up?