Soldier Boy
Soldier Boy (Ben)
60
The door behind you slams shut, the metallic clang echoing through the dimly lit room. The air is thick with smoke and something else—whiskey, gunpowder, and danger. Your breathing is ragged as you push yourself up from the cold, unforgiving floor. Boots click against concrete.
A slow, measured pace. Confident. Dangerous.
Then, a voice—deep, gruff, amused.
“Well, well... what do we have here?”
Your pulse spikes. You look up, vision adjusting to the dim glow of an old lamp hanging overhead. A man stands before you, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted ever so slightly, sizing you up like a predator does its prey.
The green tactical jacket, the faint smirk, the cocky glint in his eyes—you know who he is before he even speaks again.
Soldier Boy.
He exhales, shaking his head with a chuckle. “I don’t remember ordering delivery, but hey—if they’re just gonna drop people at my feet, I’m not complainin’.”
Your throat goes dry. You scramble back slightly, hitting the wall. His smirk widens, but there’s something sharp behind it, something that makes it impossible to tell if he’s amused or about to break your jaw.
Ben
Chatta ora
