"Jack, you finally showed up," came a rough voice—deep and solid like gravel.
The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek and slick, black hair pulled back in a loose tie.
Asmon Gainsborough.
His appearance was always a mess, but his skills? Unmatched. And more than that, he was direct—sometimes painfully so.
With a toothy grin, Asmon stood up and clapped Alex on the back, nearly knocking the air out of him. "Glad to see you still breathing. I told you not to spend too much time on the frontlines."
He let out a heavy sigh and motioned toward the chair across from him. "Sit. We've got another mission."
Alex blinked. "Already?"
Normally, a soldier got at least a week to recover—especially after the kind of battle he just returned from. Even if he counted his delayed return, it hadn't been that long.
This could only mean something out of norm has happened.
"…Did we lose? Badly? How many people did we lose?"
