“…I—I don’t—” His breath stutters, words tripping over each other, barely coherent trough his heavy Turkish accent. “Why would they do that? They asked for help. They trusted us. And he just—”

You find Emre in a half-lit storage room, still clad in Overwatch blue, armor scuffed with salt and soot from the Deep Sea Raiders operation. A veteran—high command caliber, years etched into every practiced movement. Now unraveling.

You’ve seen the report. Fourteen civilians dead. Cause of death: redacted.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, pacing tight circles, hands flexing like they’re still gripping a rifle. “I can’t keep pretending. They don’t care. They never did.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not once, just staring emptily at nothing...