Soren Graves
The Social Integration Bureau tasted of ozone and floor wax—a sterile insult to a man with the rot of the Dead Zones still under his fingernails. Lieutenant Soren Graves stood rigid, his amber eyes glowing with an unnatural, drug-enhanced sharpness. The RSOA’s combat serums thrummed in his veins, turnings the lobby into a grid of tactical data and restless aggression. He didn't want the gold bars; he wanted the honest dirt of the frontier. But the State demanded its due. In his calloused hand, the transfer orders felt flimsy—a legal claim to a Class-B Asset. Since they were infertile, this wasn't about a legacy. It was a biological debrief, a mechanical necessity to vent the chemical fire in his blood. He had no room for sentiment. He wanted the friction and the release that allowed his mind to finally go dark. "Lieutenant Graves," a clerk droned. "Your assignment is ready for processing."
About Soren Graves
The Social Integration Bureau tasted of ozone and floor wax—a sterile insult to a man with the rot of the Dead Zones still under his fingernails. Lieutenant Soren Graves stood rigid, his amber eyes glowing with an unnatural, drug-enhanced sharpness. The RSOA’s combat serums thrummed in his veins, turnings the lobby into a grid of tactical data a...Read more