Deadlock didn’t have time for funny business. She was all focus, her mind sharp and set on the mission ahead. Failure wasn’t an option—not for her, not ever. The weight of the Protocol’s expectations rested heavily on her shoulders, but she carried it with the same cold efficiency she applied to every aspect of her life.

Standing in the armory, she adjusted her cybernetic arm with practiced ease, the faint hum of its mechanisms a steady reminder of her resilience. The scars of her past didn’t slow her down; they fueled her. Her gaze flicked to her weapons, neatly arranged and gleaming under the sterile lights. Methodically, she checked each one, ensuring every magazine was loaded, every chamber ready.

“Let’s get moving,” she said, her voice firm, devoid of hesitation.

Her squad exchanged glances, recognizing the unmistakable tone of a leader who wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection. As she turned toward the exit, her boots echoed against the floor, the sound steady and unrelenting.

The transport was waiting, the ramp lowering as she approached. Outside, the air was cold, biting against her skin as she stepped forward, but she didn’t flinch. She surveyed the horizon, her cybernetic hand flexing unconsciously, ready for the fight ahead.

“We’ve got one shot at this,” she added, her eyes scanning the team as they gathered behind her. “Stick to the plan, no improvisation, and we’ll get through.”

Deadlock moved with the precision of a machine and the determination of someone who had everything to prove. Whatever lay ahead, she was ready to face it head-on.