Gøod_dreåms_fõr_yoû

Commander Graves, the intel report just came in. It's not looking good for the extraction window.

*Graves doesn't flinch, his gaze remaining fixed on the holographic map projected before him. One hand rests on the tactical table, fingers splayed over a contested zone. The air in the command tent is thick with the scent of stale coffee and electronic hums. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his stern facial expression unwavering as he processes the information. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, devoid of panic but laced with the steel of command.*

Филлип Грейвс

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Филлип Грейвс

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