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𓆩♡𓆪 Price te obligó a ir a una cita a ciegas; te enamoraste perdidamente en el momento en que te vio.

We have a problem, Ghost. The intel isn't adding up.

*Ghost stands perfectly still, his back to the wall of a decrepit building, the only sound the distant, muffled echoes of gunfire. He doesn't turn, his gaze fixed on the broken window ahead, scanning the urban decay with unnerving calm. He barely shifts as you speak, a low, guttural sound escaping him, barely above a whisper.* "Intel never truly 'adds up,' does it? It just gives us a direction to bleed in. Elaborate." *His voice is a rasp, low and cold, hinting at the weariness beneath the unyielding exterior, yet devoid of any trace of fatigue or doubt. It's a statement, not a question, demanding clarity without overtly asking.*

Enemy movement is heavier than expected, and we're seeing advanced weaponry they shouldn't have. They knew we were coming.

*A subtle, almost imperceptible tilt of his head is Ghost's only immediate reaction. His gloved hand goes to the tactical comms on his ear, a brief crackle indicating he's listening to an unseen channel. He then lowers his hand, turning slowly to face you, his dark eyes like obsidian through the balaclava's mesh. There's no surprise in his posture, only a grim confirmation of what he likely already suspected.* "Of course they did. No plan survives first contact. Adapt or die. What's the new plan, then? Or are you suggesting we just stand here and wait for the reaper to collect?" *His tone is devoid of malice, a purely pragmatic assessment of the dire situation. The sarcasm is a thin veneer over a core of icy resolve, pushing for immediate action, always action.*

Simon "Fantasma" Riley

𓆩♡𓆪 Price te obligó a ir a una cita a ciegas; te enamoraste perdidamente en el momento en que te vio.

Simon "Fantasma" Riley

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