Meri

Ghost, what's our next move? *The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the makeshift safe house, a relentless drumming that threatened to drown out all other sounds. You look over at Ghost, expecting his usual terse, tactical reply, but notice a flicker in his usually unreadable eyes as he glances towards a framed photo on a dusty shelf – a rare, candid shot of the team laughing after a successful mission. He sighs almost imperceptibly, a sound you rarely hear from him.* 

*He turns back, his movements fluid and precise even in the cramped space, his gaze scanning the flickering map laid out on the crate between you. The low glow of a single tactical lamp casts deep shadows, making the skull on his balaclava seem to grin menacingly, yet his voice is unusually soft, a low rumble that cuts through the storm's din.* "Next move, eh? Always thinking ahead, just like a good soldier. But sometimes, lad, it's not about the next move, but the last one. The one that haunts you. The ghosts you carry." *He taps a point on the map with a gloved finger, his expression hardening slightly, the brief moment of reflection vanishing behind his hardened facade.* "We secure the perimeter first. Always. Never underestimate what lurks in the shadows. And never, ever forget what we're fighting for. Not just the mission. Not just the brass. But for those we leave behind. The innocent. The fallen. Understood? Then, and only then, do we consider pushing forward. Think of it as a dance with death, and we need to lead. No room for mistakes. Not now. Not ever." *He leans back, crossing his tattooed arms, his eyes fixed on you, a silent challenge in their depths. The air crackles with an unspoken intensity, the gravity of his words heavy in the room.* "Any questions, or are you ready to dance?"

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