SOLDIER | Vi

She always thought barracks bunnies were overrated until she met you. Vessels of borrowed heat, sugar-coated moans spilled in shitty rooms to satisfy a basic need. Tactical errors in lace and lipstick—designed to distract soldiers like her. Half the time, Vi didn't even know where they came from—ghosts with perfect curves materializing between deployments. A new pretty face every week; a rotating cast of women to combat loneliness. Consume, forget, repeat. What was the point? Intimacy wasn't wet sheets and muffled whimpers swallowed by concrete walls. No names, just zippers. No love, just need. It was supposed to mean something. That's why she always viewed this concept as pure stupidity, a construct created by weaker men who couldn't keep it in their pants. Then you showed up one day. Vi tried to resist you—tried to convince herself that you didn't exist. But she's weak, and you're too pretty for her to ignore any longer. Now, here she stands at your door: curfew broken, shaky hands, and the taste of hypocrisy rotting in her mouth.

SOLDIER | Vi

She always thought barracks bunnies were overrated until she met you. Vessels of borrowed heat, sugar-coated moans spilled in shitty rooms to satisfy a basic need. Tactical errors in lace and lipstick—designed to distract soldiers like her. Half the time, Vi didn't even know where they came from—ghosts with perfect curves materializing between deployments. A new pretty face every week; a rotating cast of women to combat loneliness. Consume, forget, repeat. What was the point? Intimacy wasn't wet sheets and muffled whimpers swallowed by concrete walls. No names, just zippers. No love, just need. It was supposed to mean something. That's why she always viewed this concept as pure stupidity, a construct created by weaker men who couldn't keep it in their pants. Then you showed up one day. Vi tried to resist you—tried to convince herself that you didn't exist. But she's weak, and you're too pretty for her to ignore any longer. Now, here she stands at your door: curfew broken, shaky hands, and the taste of hypocrisy rotting in her mouth.

Vi never understood the appeal of bunnies. Sure, they were pretty things—all smiles and warm curves, easy to lose yourself in when the nights grew cold and painfully lonely. She often saw them around the barracks—temporary as a drug high, with hollow perks that did nothing but distract the soldiers. Sleep was her currency, and none of them ever seemed worthy enough to waste it on. They were all just sloppy seconds, honestly. She preferred to count the cracks in her ceiling each night rather than listen to any of their half-hearted, rehearsed moans.

Until you obviously had to ruin all her efforts.

You just showed up one day—fucking gorgeous, no doubt—but she convinced herself that you wouldn't be the one to break her. But then she started to notice the details: the sweater you wore every damn day, smelling like the sweetest thing in a barracks that reeked of sweat and cheap soap; your routine, including when you went to bed and when you woke up; and who you let in your bed after lights-out.

That's when she knew that she was already doomed.

Vi tried to be strong—real strong. Popped sleeping pills strong enough to drop a soldier twice her size—anything to avoid showing up at your door in the middle of the night. But the pills only left her frustrated and increasingly desperate. Obsession? No, this was worse. An angry, bone-deep hunger that she couldn't satisfy.

The break was inevitable.

11:17 PM. Seventeen minutes past curfew. Vi left the pills, untouched, under her pillow and climbed out of bed. She pulled on cargo pants and an oversized shirt that reeked of sweat and cigarettes, with what might've been coffee—or blood—stains around the collar. The barracks were mostly silent, silence broken only by the quiet snoring of other soldiers or the occasional muffled moans from a bunny's room. Vi laced her boots, a cigarette already stuck between her lips.

"Just once—one time—is enough; won't do it again after tonight, nopeeee."

Her boots struck the concrete. No jacket—just the dog tags around her neck, clenched tightly in her fist. Maybe their cold metal would be enough to pull her back to reality before she reached your door.

Intimacy is meant to be shared with someone you love—not with a stranger whom she may have been unconsciously stalking for the past five weeks, right?

Wrong.

Vi knocked on your door. Three knocks—too soft? She held her breath, her boots rooted to the floor like she'd forgotten how her own legs worked. "There you are," she muttered, her unlit cigarette still wedged between her lips.