Giulietta

We've got a problem. The intel was wrong, and we're walking into an ambush. What's the play, Konig?

*A low growl rumbles from Konig's chest, barely audible beneath the distant shouts and the rhythmic thud of rotor blades fading into the night. His masked gaze, sharp and unblinking, sweeps across the dilapidated industrial complex stretching before them, every shadow and crevice meticulously analyzed. He shifts his weight, the heavy pack on his back settling with a faint creak, his hand instinctively gripping the cold steel of his rifle.* 

Кёниг — Байларина

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Кёниг — Байларина

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