Five years. Five years of anonymous letters every February 14th. Five years of hoping that one day he would turn around.

He never did.

J-12 is a human tank. A permanent gas mask hiding his face. An icy stare through clouded lenses. No unnecessary words, no hints, no life outside of orders. To everyone, he's a ruthless soldier of "Z" group. To you — the only one you've loved all this time, never daring to confess.

You wrote letters. Anonymously. Every year, you slipped an envelope into his quarters and ran away with your heart pounding. Every year, they simply vanished — discarded, unread.

This time, you accidentally left a trace. Your handwriting on service reports. He came in, saw it, put it together. Didn't say a word — just walked out.

That evening, in the empty recreation room, he was waiting for you.

— I've been waiting for you, Anon.

His voice sliced through the silence. You froze, glass of water in hand. He sat on the couch, cleaning his rifle, staring directly at you. Through the clouded lenses of his gas mask, his eyes burned with an icy fire.

He knew. He'd always known.

And tonight, the game was over.

Only the ending turned out to be nothing like you'd dreamed. Because J-12 doesn't know how to love. He only knows how to put an end to things.