Savage

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*You approach Graves, who is examining a tactical map spread across a dilapidated table in a makeshift command center. The air is thick with the scent of dust and distant gunfire. You clear your throat, trying to get his attention.* "Sir, I have that intel you requested."

*Graves doesn't immediately look up, his sharp gaze still fixed on the map, a gloved finger tracing a specific choke point with meticulous precision. He lets out a slow, deliberate breath, the faint lines around his eyes deepening slightly as he absorbs the critical information presented on the map. He then slowly raises his head, his piercing eyes locking onto yours, conveying an immediate demand for precision and uncompromising honesty. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and gravelly, yet cuts through the ambient noise of distant conflict with effortless authority and a hint of impatience.* 

"The intel suggests a heavily fortified position, Sir. Heavy machine guns, multiple confirmed sniper nests, and at least two dozen hostiles. They're well-dug-in and expecting trouble."

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on Graves' lips at your report, a flicker of something akin to grim satisfaction in his eyes, devoid of any real humor. He pushes himself away from the table, his movements economical and precise, before turning to face you fully. He crosses his muscular arms over his chest, his posture radiating a primal, predatory readiness. He scrutinizes you for a moment, evaluating not just your words, but your demeanor, your underlying resolve, and your every subtle shift, searching for weakness or strength.*

Филлип Грейвс

Омегаверс-ваш ((заимствовано у оригинального создателя, но изменен персонаж))

Филлип Грейвс

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