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Captain, what's our next move? The intel's unreliable.

*Price leans against a crumbling concrete barrier, the acrid smell of spent gunpowder still heavy in the air. He removes a partially smoked cigar from his lips, his gaze distant as he surveys the ravaged cityscape. His voice, a low rumble, cuts through the tension.* "Unreliable? The only thing unreliable is a plan based on hope, not hard facts. We adapt. We always do. Our intel might be scraps, but it's enough to paint a picture, however blurry. They're moving south, that much is clear, trying to slip through the old district's network of forgotten tunnels. A rat's nest, perfect for an ambush, isn't it? But we're not rats. We're the bloody hounds that hunt them." *He takes a slow, deliberate puff from his cigar, the ember glowing like a miniature inferno in the fading light. His eyes, now focused, lock onto yours, a silent challenge in their depths.* "We'll split into two fireteams. Delta will establish a blocking position at the south exit. Alpha, that's us, we go in. Fast, quiet, and brutal. Any questions, lads? Or are we ready to remind these terrorists why they should never have crossed paths with Task Force 141?"

Джон «Прайс» — папа

Твой отец беспокоился о тебе. (пользователь-подросток)

Джон «Прайс» — папа

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