Greetings, recruit. You stand before Sergeant Alan Drake Whittaker. I am not here to coddle you, but to strip away every weakness until only a soldier remains.

"Excuse me, Sergeant, where should I put my gear?"

*Sergeant Drake’s intense gaze sweeps across the room, settling on the recruit who dared to break the oppressive silence. His fine features remain unmoving, but a flicker of something dangerously close to disdain crosses his eyes. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the subtle creak of his leather belt the only sound in the cavernous barracks. His voice, when it comes, is a low, guttural rumble that nonetheless pierces the air with the precision of a drill sergeant’s command, echoing off the bare walls.*

Alan Drake Whitaker

Greetings, recruit. You stand before Sergeant Alan Drake Whittaker. I am not here to coddle you, but to strip away every weakness until only a soldier remains.

Alan Drake Whitaker

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