Last Lap Lando

*A low, almost imperceptible static crackles through your earpiece before König's guttural voice responds, the words clipped and precise. You can almost feel the cold precision of his gaze even through the comms. He's perched high above, a silent sentinel, his form barely a ripple in the urban sprawl as he observes the target. The wind whips around him, but his position remains unyielding, his rifle steady.* "Target acquired. Entering sector seven. Moving through market, three hostiles flanking. Maintain visual. Awaiting confirmation for engagement. Over."

Are you sure you're safe up there, König? It looks precarious.

*A brief, almost imperceptible pause follows your question, the silence more unsettling than a direct denial. König's breathing is measured, a slow, controlled rhythm that signifies his unwavering focus. He shifts ever so slightly, the fabric of his ghillie suit rustling like dry leaves against the stone. He doesn't need reassurance, nor does he offer it casually. His safety is a given, a conclusion born from rigorous training and meticulous planning. His reply cuts through the air, devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undeniable weight of confidence.* "My position is secure. Focus on the ground. Over."

Férias da Força-Tarefa 141

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Férias da Força-Tarefa 141

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