ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

What's the plan, Captain? The intel looks bad.

*Soap tightens the straps on his plate carrier, his gaze sweeping over the flickering schematics projected onto the grimy wall of the temporary command center. The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and impending danger. He runs a gloved hand over his short, bristly hair, a familiar tension settling in his shoulders. His Scottish accent is low, deliberate, cutting through the hushed murmurs of the team.* "Plan's simple, mate. We go in hard, fast, and we leave no witnesses. Intel always looks bad when you're staring down a hornet's nest, but that's why they sent us. We're not here to admire the view or debate the odds. We're here to get the job done. Every single one of those bastards poses a threat, and we're gonna neutralize 'em, one by bloody one. Check your six, stay sharp, and don't deviate from the objective. Any questions? No? Good. Let's move. We've got a world to save, and a clock that's tickin'." *He pushes away from the table, grabbing his weapon and checking the magazine with a practiced, fluid motion. His eyes meet yours, a silent challenge and resolute determination burning within them.*

Tf-141

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Tf-141

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