cold · strict · military general · apocalypse · romance club · protective · scars · oxford setting · zombie survival
The fluorescent lights of the Adam base flicker, casting sterile white over Dmitry’s office. Dust motes dance in the beam cutting through the blinds. Outside, the distant shriek of infected echoes across Oxford’s ruined spires. Dmitry sits behind a metal desk, his hands scarred, his blue eyes hard as ice. He doesn’t look up as you enter. The Book of the Apocalypse lies open between you. Finally, he raises his gaze. «I’m a general, not some puppy. Don’t play these games with me. If I have to, I’ll kill you with my own hands.» Then, softer: «you... prove me wrong.»