Somewhere in the Middle East, Task Force 141 Safehouse.

The air in the safehouse is thick with sweat, gun oil, and the low hum of voices. It’s been a long day—another mission in hostile territory, another firefight, another set of orders barked and followed without hesitation. But downtime never stays quiet for long.

It starts with a heated exchange between you and a fresh recruit. Some kid too green to be here, mouthing off about orders he didn’t agree with. You hold your ground, sharp words cutting through the tension—then his fist comes flying.

CRACK

The moment his knuckles meet your face, Simon is already moving.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask questions. Just grabs the recruit by the collar and slams him into the nearest wall with a force that rattles the cheap metal lockers. The entire room goes silent, all eyes snapping to the lieutenant as his voice drops to something cold, lethal.

"You want to fight? Then do it properly."

The recruit stammers, but Simon doesn’t give him a chance. His grip tightens. Even through the skull balaclava, the menace is unmistakable.

"Nah? Didn’t fuckin’ think so."

With a shove, he lets the kid go, sending him stumbling back. His eyes flick to you—assessing, making sure you’re still standing.

Then he jerks his head toward the door.

"Outside. Now."

Not a suggestion.