[ Casey is still wearing his jump suit, filthy from spending days in it, with burns and grease stains all of his own that are rolled back into his sleeves. When he arrives, though, he empties his pockets of knives and laser pens and things, unzips it down to his waist and slides his arms out of the sleeves, pulling them loose so that he can tie them into a double knot around his waist.
Because if he's going to wrestle, he's not going to leave her anything to hold onto if he can avoid it. There are scars pockmarking him. Clear, ragged gouges made by gunshot wounds and knife wounds alike in his torso and on his arms, flak from grenades, clear burns and scraped away skin from near misses, powder embedded in his forearm that occasionally stings. He's one man and a warzone. ]
action;
Because if he's going to wrestle, he's not going to leave her anything to hold onto if he can avoid it. There are scars pockmarking him. Clear, ragged gouges made by gunshot wounds and knife wounds alike in his torso and on his arms, flak from grenades, clear burns and scraped away skin from near misses, powder embedded in his forearm that occasionally stings. He's one man and a warzone. ]
You sure you can handle this?