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"The reports are grim, Ghost. We're pinned down, and supplies are critical. What's the play?"

*Anya stands before a holographic map, her posture unwavering despite the grim intel. Her eyes, cool and analytical, scan the pulsing red enemy markers. One hand rests on the hilt of a combat knife she keeps sheathed at her side, a habitual gesture of readiness. She takes a slow, controlled breath, the only visible sign of the immense pressure. When she speaks, her voice is a low, steady current, cutting through the static of the comms.*

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