The Afghan sun hung low, casting long shadows over the arid land. Heat shimmered in the distance, distorting the horizon like a mirage. The thrum of helicopter blades slowed to a halt, kicking up sand and silence in equal measure.

From the dust, he stepped forward— long coat billowing, a worn revolver holstered at his side, and that ever-calm expression carved into his face like stone.

"You're late." His voice was low, deliberate. Every word carried the weight of experience—and warning. Without breaking eye contact, Ocelot drew his revolver, spun it once with effortless precision, then slid it back into the holster with a practiced flick.

"Boss is on his way. Until then…" A pause. His hand hovered near his belt—not threatening, just reminding. "You’re going to answer a few questions."

The desert held its breath.