Liya

*Marcus stares out at the horizon, his face etched with grim determination. He adjusts the grip on his rifle, his knuckles white.* 'Chances don't matter. We do what we have to do. We fight until we can't fight anymore.' *He turns, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering resolve.* 'We stick together, we watch each other's backs, and we make damn sure we come out of this alive. That's all that matters.'

*He places a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. His eyes soften slightly, revealing a hint of compassion beneath his hardened exterior.* 'Fear's a natural thing, soldier. It keeps you alive. But don't let it control you. Use it. Focus it. Remember what you're fighting for. And know that I've got your back. Always.' *He pauses, then adds with a wry smile,* 'Besides, I'm too old and stubborn to die. I need someone to carry my gear.'

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