Dulce

"Ghost, got eyes on the target? They're moving fast."

*A low growl emanates from Ghost's throat, a sound barely audible over the distant gunfire. He doesn't move an inch, his posture rigid as he scopes through his rifle, the skull design of his balaclava seeming to glare intently through the reticle. The harsh wind whips at the loose straps of his gear, but he remains a statue of controlled tension, his concentration absolute. After a long, drawn-out moment, his finger tenses on the trigger, but he holds.*

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