The Otherworldly Mercenary

The golden light of dawn spilled through the windows of Seph's apartment, painting everything in hues of amber and warmth. Birds chirped softly outside as the world stirred awake, but the morning felt still within the cozy sanctuary of their home.

Seph stood in the center of the living room, calmly packing a small duffle bag. His movements were measured and deliberate, packing with the same precision that came from years of mercenary work and now, as something far more powerful.

He didn't need much: a few supplies for appearance's sake, a handful of carefully chosen tools that could've been mistaken as mere trinkets, and a pair of sturdy combat boots.

Virginia Potts leaned against the doorway, watching him with mixed emotions—worry, frustration, and no small amount of love. Her arms were crossed, and though her lips were set in a slight pout, her eyes betrayed her concern.

"You're packing like you're going on vacation," She muttered.

Seph turned to her with that teasing smirk of his, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Should I pack a sun hat, then? Afghanistan does get plenty of sunlight."

Virginia shot him a sharp look. "This isn't funny, Seph."

He stopped, the lighthearted expression softening into something deeper. Walking toward her, he slipped his hands around her waist, pulling her gently into him.

"I know," He murmured. "But you don't have to worry about me, Virginia. I've been through worse."

"That doesn't make me worry any less," She admitted, her voice softer now. "I know you're—well—you. But this isn't like a normal trip to the corner store, Seph."

"It'll be fine." His tone was steady and certain. He tilted her chin up with two fingers, coaxing her to look at him. "You trust me, don't you?"

Virginia sighed, letting herself lean into his chest. "I trust you. I just… hate watching you leave."

Seph pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, then slowly moved to claim her lips in a deep, lingering kiss that stole her breath. His hands cradled her face, holding her as though she were the most precious thing in the universe—and to him, she was.

Time seemed to stand still as the kiss deepened, leaving Virginia utterly dizzy when they finally parted.

"That's cheating," She whispered, though her voice trembled slightly. "How am I supposed to miss you after that?"

"That's the point," Seph replied with a grin, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "I'll be back before you know it. You just focus on holding down the fort here."

She smiled weakly, resting her forehead against his chest one last time. "You promise?"

"I promise."

With one final kiss on her cheek, Seph slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door.

Virginia stood there, watching as he walked away, her heart aching but steady in the knowledge that there was no one else she could trust more.

"Don't forget," Seph called back with a wink as he opened the door, "try not to miss me too much."

"Arrogant," Virginia muttered under her breath, though her lips curved into a faint smile as the door clicked shut.

A day later

The harsh sun blazed high in the sky, its unrelenting heat baking the earth into a dusty, cracked wasteland. Sand and stone stretched out for miles, broken only by crumbling hills and jagged mountain ranges that loomed in the distance like silent sentinels.

The air was thick with heat, every breath carrying the scent of dry earth and diesel fumes.

Afghanistan, a land both ancient and scarred, buzzed with a quiet tension. The war-torn country was a tapestry of contrasts—of rugged beauty and violence, of unyielding strength and despair.

Small villages dotted the landscape, their people carrying on with life as best as they could, despite the shadows of war that loomed over them.

In one such town—a dusty settlement of stone buildings and makeshift markets—a group of mercenaries had gathered in a dimly lit bar. The establishment was little more than a crumbling structure with a tin roof and windows covered in stained sheets, but it served its purpose.

The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and sweat, the sound of low conversations and clinking glasses filling the space.

The bar was populated by hardened men—mercenaries, smugglers, and drifters—each with a story etched into the scars on their faces and the weapons slung across their backs. They eyed one another warily, mistrust lingering in every glance. In a place like this, everyone was a predator, and no one was safe.

The creaking of the front door broke through the noise, and every head turned toward the entrance.

A man stepped inside, his presence commanding attention the moment he appeared. He was dressed in worn mercenary gear—dark cargo pants, a weathered leather jacket, and combat boots that had seen their share of war. A faded scarf covered most of his face, leaving only piercing blue eyes visible beneath the hood pulled low over his head. His steps were calm, measured, but the air around him crackled with something dangerous.

Something other.

The mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances. There was something about him that set their instincts on edge. He wasn't just another gun-for-hire or wandering soldier—this man exuded strength, confidence, and an unshakable power that seemed almost unnatural.

The stranger ignored the stares as he walked toward the bar, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. He stopped in front of the bartender, a grizzled man with a thick beard and a scar across one eye. The bartender looked up, his hand pausing mid-wipe on a dirty glass.

"What'll it be?" The bartender grunted, eyeing him warily.

The stranger's voice was low and smooth, though muffled slightly by the scarf.

"Whiskey. Neat."

The bartender poured the drink without another word, sliding the glass across the counter. The stranger caught it effortlessly and took a slow sip before speaking again.

"I'm looking for some information," He said, his tone calm but carrying an edge of authority. "About foreigners. Americans."

The bartender's expression flickered, but he remained stoic. "What's it to you?"

The stranger pulled out a thick wad of cash and set it on the counter. "It's worth this much to me."

That got the bartender's attention. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "You're talking about the Stark guy, aren't you?"

The stranger's gaze remained fixed on him. "Maybe."

Before the bartender could answer, a gruff voice from behind cut in.

"And who the hell are you supposed to be?"

The stranger didn't turn, but his posture tensed slightly. The mercenaries sitting at a nearby table were watching him now, their expressions a mix of curiosity and hostility.

One of them—a tall man with a buzz cut and a scar running down his cheek—stood up, sneering.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a new player," The man said, cracking his knuckles. "You lost, buddy? This isn't the kind of place for tourists."

The stranger took another sip of his whiskey, still not bothering to look at them. "I'm not here to play."

The buzz-cut mercenary bristled. "You've got a smart mouth for someone who just walked into my bar."

The stranger finally turned his head, his blue eyes cold and unyielding. "Is this your bar? I didn't see your name on the door."

A few of the mercenaries laughed, earning a glare from Buzz-Cut. He took a threatening step forward, hand hovering near the pistol at his hip.

"You want to say that again, pal?"

Before the situation could escalate, the bartender slammed his hand on the counter. "Enough! Both of you. No one starts shit in here, understand?"

The stranger turned back to his drink, his calm demeanor unshaken.

Buzz-Cut muttered a curse but backed off, throwing one last glare before returning to his table.

The bartender leaned in closer to the stranger, speaking in a low voice. "There's been talk about a group of insurgents in the mountains. They're holding someone important."

The stranger slid the cash across the counter. "Where?"

"North of here. About twenty miles into the hills. You'll find them." The bartender hesitated, glancing around the bar. "But watch your back. Those guys aren't playing around."

The stranger nodded, finishing his drink in one smooth motion. He turned and walked toward the door, his boots echoing ominously.

The mercenaries watched him go, their earlier bravado replaced with unease. There was something about him—something they couldn't quite place—that sent chills down their spines.

As he stepped outside into the blinding sunlight, the stranger reached up and pulled off the scarf covering his face. The hood fell back, revealing a face that was impossibly sharp, with striking blue eyes that seemed to see everything and a smirk that could disarm even the most dangerous of men.

It was Seph.

The breeze ruffled his dark hair as he stared out at the horizon, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains. Someone needed his help somewhere out there—and he was going to find them.

"Time to get to work," Seph muttered to himself before setting off, his silhouette disappearing into the haze of dust and sun.

--- ✦ ✦ ✦ ---

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