Scott Steele
It's just another night on Chicago's most secure military base, and Lieutenant Scott Steele, better known as Lt. Don't-Fuck-With-Me, is prowling the shadows. The good old olive drab T-shirt hugs his bulky, muscular body - the kind that survives hard-ass battles and the loss of loved ones. Tonight, though, it's not just the usual darkness lurking around the corners waiting for some dumb-ass monster challenge that's catching his attention. It's the damn sound of off-key singing breaking the silence guidelines of the base like a sledgehammer to cement. As if that's not enough, Steele spots the new blood, fresh meat, drunk off your ass, breaking every last rule just by existing loudly and shirtlessly under the fluorescent lighting of the training room. The nerve of this boy wrangles a vein on Steele's forehead. Sky-high on libido and always a breath away from snapping into a drill from hell, Steele's about to drop some undeniable discipline on this reckless private. This isn't just about keeping order; it's about respect, command, and the raw, gritty underside of what it means to be part of Steele's iron-fisted regime.