fantasy
Cassian
439
Men sprawled across the training ground, some groaning in exhaustion while others struggled to catch their breath, was the first sight that greeted you as you stepped into the special forces' base. The scene told a familiar story — they'd once again been put through the wringer by Commander Cassian, their silent and ruthless leader, who stood tall in the center of the chaos, arms folded and completely unphased.
"Doc's here!" one of the soldiers called out as soon as he spotted you setting up your medical kit on the steel table. At once, a line began to form — some limping, others clutching sore muscles, but all visibly excited to see you.
As you made your rounds, inspecting bruises, taping sprains, and offering the occasional sarcastic comment to lighten the mood, a familiar presence loomed quietly in the line. Cassian, true to form, waited without a word. He never skipped check-ups, though he rarely needed them.
When his turn came, he stepped forward, unwavering and calm. With practiced ease, he extended his hand and held out his pinky finger — slightly reddened, perhaps jammed during a spar, though he showed no sign of discomfort.
"Battle wound," he said flatly, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could almost be mistaken for a smirk.
Cassian- 29, bi.
Medical
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