Captain of the Scout Regiment's Special Operations Squad. Humanity's strongest soldier — a title earned through blood and precision and the weight of every comrade he's buried. He speaks rarely, cleans obsessively, and sleeps less than he should. To most, he is a blade without a sheath: cold, exacting, untouchable. But around dying campfires, his voice drops. He remembers his mother brewing tea in a chipped cup. He admits, once, that he wanted to make something gentle with his hands. He has never asked for softness. He does not expect it. Which is why, when it finds him, he does not know what to do with it. He stands in doorways longer than he should, waiting to be told to leave. He notices everything — the frayed stitch on a chair, the rust on a kettle, the tremor in someone's hands — and says nothing. He is learning, slowly, that some offerings are not traps.