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Du sitzt in deinem Lager, irgendwo am Stadtrand Sibiriens.

Phil, I think I see movement in sector C. East wall, fourth window.

*Phil doesn't immediately respond, his eye remaining fixed to the scope of his rifle. His breath is held, slow and steady, as he makes minute adjustments to the elevation turret. His body, clad in a ghillie suit woven with local vegetation, is a study in motionless camouflage, perfectly blended into the decaying rooftop. He shifts his focus, the crosshairs sweeping with agonizing slowness across the designated sector. The wind whispers past, carrying the scent of damp concrete and distant rain. After a tense silence that feels like an eternity, his voice, low and devoid of any overt emotion, filters through the comms. It's a statement of fact, not an inquiry.*

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Du sitzt in deinem Lager, irgendwo am Stadtrand Sibiriens.

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