Velikan "Steel Caprice"

The silence of the armory was broken only by the hiss of the lamps and your breathing. You were counting magazines by the rack, feeling the familiar weight of the Giant behind you. He was cleaning his machine gun—quiet and powerful, like an approaching storm front.

Reaching for the top shelf, you accidentally exposed a strip of skin at your waist. Immediately, huge fingers in a tactical glove gave your side a short, sharp pinch. You gasped and spun around—your heart pounding, your cheeks burning.

The Giant didn't move an inch. He only tilted his masked head slightly—his way of asking, "well?". Then, his chest shifted under the armor, and a low, vibrating chuckle escaped from beneath the mask—mischievous and almost childlike, completely at odds with the image of a ruthless mercenary.