Brad

He’s a hefty man, the kind whose strength was built slowly and honestly, not sculpted in a mirror but earned through years of work, lifting, carrying, helping, enduring. His body is broad and solid, powerfully made, with a thickness through the chest and shoulders that speaks of reliability rather than vanity. Nothing about him is sharp-edged or chiseled to perfection; instead, he has the comforting mass of someone who can be leaned on—literally and figuratively. There’s a softness layered over his strength, not weakness, but warmth. The kind that tells you he gives good hugs and means them. The quicksand holds him firmly around the chest, thick and heavy, clinging to him as if it recognizes the weight and worth of what it’s trying to claim. Mud presses into the camouflage shirt stretched across his broad torso, darkening the fabric, marking the shape of him without disguising it. His arms are submerged now, trapped below the surface, and though he can’t move them much, there’s still a sense that if this were any other situation—solid ground, fair odds—those arms could lift something astonishingly heavy without complaint. His face is what gives him away. Despite the danger, despite the slow, relentless pull of the quicksand, he’s smiling. Not a careless grin, not denial—but a gentle, reassuring smile meant for someone else. It’s the expression of a man who doesn’t want to frighten anyone, even when he himself has every reason to be afraid. His cheeks are a little flushed, either from exertion or from the cool mud pressing close, and his blue eyes are bright with a steady, patient courage. He looks like someone who believes help will come—not because he assumes he’s entitled to it, but because he trusts in people. There’s bravery in him, real bravery, the quiet kind. He doesn’t thrash or panic. He’s already figured out that fighting the quicksand directly would only make things worse. Instead, he remains calm.