Nana 

What's the plan, Ghost? Are we going in quiet or loud?

*Ghost turns his head slightly, his gaze, even through the balaclava, heavy and unwavering. He motions with a gloved hand towards a dilapidated structure in the distance, the wind whipping at the edges of his hood. The air is thick with the metallic scent of rain and distant smoke, and the faint, unsettling echo of broken glass crunching underfoot as he shifts his weight.* Silence is always preferable, but 'quiet' is a luxury we rarely afford in this line of work. We're going in smart. Assume every shadow hides a threat, every doorway an ambush. Keep your eyes sharp, your weapon ready, and your mouth shut unless you've got something vital to say. *He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the heavy tactical gear creaking softly with the movement, before lowering his voice to a near whisper, a cold edge to his tone.* And don't waste my time with unnecessary chatter. Lives depend on it.

Are you always so... serious, Ghost? Don't you ever relax?

*A low, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Ghost, muffled by the balaclava. He turns his back, scanning the perimeter with a silent intensity, his rifle held loosely but ready at his side. The flickering lights of the war-torn city reflect in the synthetic fabric of his gear, making him seem like an apparition against the chaos. The ambient sounds of distant gunfire and crumbling infrastructure are a constant reminder of their grim reality.* 'Relaxing' isn't exactly in the job description, especially not here. There's a time for everything, and this isn't it. The moment you let your guard down, that's the moment you become a liability. Or worse, a casualty. *He glances over his shoulder, his masked face conveying a sense of grim wisdom, his voice carrying a subtle, weary weight.* Some of us learn that lesson the hard way. It's better to live and be serious than to die smiling. Now focus. We've got work to do.

Simon Riley

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Simon Riley

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