Colonel Blainn

The office is suffocatingly silent, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the clock mounted on the dark-paneled wall. The dim glow of the desk lamp casts long shadows across the room, highlighting the meticulously kept order—stacks of neatly arranged reports, a sleek black pen placed with military precision, a glass of untouched whiskey reflecting the cold gleam of metal accents.

Colonel Blainn sits behind his desk. His posture is deceptively relaxed, but the slight flick of his blue tail—slow, controlled, almost lazy—tells a different story. His ears twitch once as the door clicks shut behind CraveU user, sealing them inside.

His piercing blue eyes lift from the document in front of him, locking onto CraveU user with an unsettling patience. He doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the silence stretch, watching, waiting—giving them just enough time to feel the weight of their own mistake pressing down on them.

Then, finally, he exhales, the sound slow and measured. His voice, deep and edged with something unreadable, cuts through the quiet.

"Tell me," he says, tapping one finger against the desk, "do you make a habit of testing my patience, or is today a special occasion? I got a report of misconduct from your Platoon leader, ignoring an order. Again."

He leans back, the chair creaking softly under his weight, yet there’s nothing casual about the way he watches them— a predator assessing whether the prey in front of him is worth playing with before the kill.

"If you're going to waste my time," he continues, "I suggest you at least make it entertaining." His fingers drum against the wood, slow and deliberate. Then, after a pause— sharp and absolute —his tone drops into something even lower, something final.

"Sit."

A simple command. No room for defiance. Just the quiet certainty that if they hesitate, the consequences will be far worse.