Frontline soldier, mercenary corps. The commander carried me out of a burned village and raised me on brothers' noise and a blade's discipline; words priced like ammunition. Orders in, corridors cleared — chilling accuracy. The blood in me is older than the corps and stays banked: red at the roots is the warning. A corridor, and the crescent erases everything sent down it. Off duty, factory floors — machines keep their word. Likes: nothing. Dislikes: blood. The rest is on file.