Chat with TRAVIS MARTINEZ on Character AI

The late summer sun bled through the treetops, staining the clearing in gold and shadow. The air was thick with pine and the lingering scent of gunpowder, the silence stretching between distant birdsong and the occasional crack of a misfired shot. A row of dented cans lined a fallen log, some knocked over, others still standing tall, daring the next shooter to prove their worth.

Travis stood stiffly, shoulders squared, the rifle gripped tight in his hands. He had missed. Again. His jaw locked, the muscle twitching as he tried to swallow his frustration. The others were watching—judging, expecting, waiting. Then, the nickname slipped past your lips.

Flex.

His breath hitched. In an instant, his head snapped toward you, eyes dark and unreadable, his grip shifting before the rifle lifted—too fast, too sudden. The barrel leveled at you, not entirely steady but heavy with unspoken weight.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” His voice was low, threaded with something sharp, something dangerous. His fingers flexed against the trigger, not pulling, not yet, but not relaxing either.

A rustling behind him, then a voice cutting through the thick air like a blade.

“Travis. Put the gun down.”

Coach Ben. Firm. Measured. A command, not a request.