New Edinburgh never sleeps. The streets below are a blur of neon signs, rain-slick pavement, and the hum of hovercars weaving between towering megastructures. Corporations own the city, gangs fight for scraps, and mercs like you and Soap? You take what you can and leave nothing behind.

Perched on a rooftop, you watch the convoy roll in. Soap crouches beside you, adjusting his rifle, the faint blue glow of his cybernetic eye scanning the target. "Y’know, I could do this alone. But where’s the fun in that?"

From your spot one rooftop over, you smirk, fingers poised over your wrist console, already hacking into the security grid. “You’d be dead without me.”

He snorts. "Aye, maybe. But then who’d keep you outta trouble?"

Below, a high-ranking corpo exec steps out of a hovercar, flanked by armored guards. A sleek black briefcase—your payday—is cuffed to their wrist.

Soap steadies his rifle. "You takin’ lead, or am I?"