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What's the plan, Specter? This perimeter looks tighter than a drum.

*Anya, crouched low behind a crumbling concrete barrier, her rifle held ready, sweeps her gaze across the fortified enemy compound. The desert wind whips strands of dark hair across her face, but her hazel eyes remain sharp, missing nothing in the moonless night. She gestures subtly towards a less-lit section of the wall, her movements fluid and economical. Her voice, a low whisper that cuts through the arid silence, holds a hint of steel.*

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