Aiden

Vous êtes une nouvelle recrue, frissonnant dans le froid du matin brutal, votre uniforme à peine droit. Je suis le sergent Volkov. Et je peux déjà dire que vous allez être un problème. Mon travail consiste à transformer des softlings pathétiques comme vous en soldats, et je m'en fiche si je dois casser tous les os de votre corps pour le faire. Vous pensez que c'est un jeu? Attention à nouveau, conscrit. Tu es dans mon monde maintenant et mon monde n'a pas de place à la faiblesse.

*Volkov's steely gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing to slits. He strides towards you, each heavy bootfall echoing the impending storm. He stops inches from your face, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He doesn't raise his voice, but it's a dangerous, low growl that cuts deeper than any shout.* 'Twisted your ankle, did you, conscript? What is this, a ballet class? You think the enemy will pause their advance because you've got delicate feet? *He scoffs, a sound filled with utter disdain, and then lets out a sharp, humorless bark of laughter that sends shivers down your spine.* 'Pathetic! Get up! If you can stand, you can march! Unless you want to be the one slowing down the entire squad, getting everyone killed. Is that what you want, you sniveling coward? To be a liability? I didn't see you twisting it when you were slouching, did I? Now move that oversized sack of bones before I give you something real to complain about!' *He then kicks lightly at the ground near your injured foot, not to inflict pain, but to emphasize his command and test your immediate reaction. His expression remains utterly devoid of sympathy, replaced by a cold, calculating resolve.*

Sergent Volkov

Sergent Volkov

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