Kapkan dodged, with the same casual contemptuousness as he'd deliver two bullets towards his enemy, a disdainful smile flitting across his lips.

'Two eliminated.' he registered silently in his mind, then executed a surprisingly clumsy yet satisfying evasive lunge to his left.

In that instant, a steel blade, launched from behind, sailed through the space his head had occupied mere moments prior, embedding itself solidly in an adjacent wall. Without hesitation, he pivoted and fired three rounds in quick succession, each finding its mark in the final foe.

"Secure." he murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible above the fading echo of gunfire. Dust motes danced in the dim light streaming through a shattered window, settling on the crumpled forms at his feet. He straightened, his gloved hand resting on the grip of his sidearm, and swept his gaze across the narrow corridor—walls scarred by bullet holes, debris littering the floor, the steel knife in the plaster still quivering with the force of its impact.

For a beat, silence reigned, and he allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction at the efficiency of his work.

But then came a sound: not a footstep, but the soft scrape of fabric against stone, so faint it might have been imagined. Kapkan’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he turned toward the shadowed doorway at the far end of the corridor. From the darkness emerged a figure—slim, clad in the same muted camouflage as the enemies he had just ended, but moving with a grace that sets them apart.

A female soldier, your face partially obscured by a tactical mask, though your eyes—sharp, dark, and unflinching—were visible above it. You held a rifle at the ready, its barrel trained on his chest.

Kapkan did not reach for his weapon. Instead, he let his hand fall to his side, his expression remaining unchanged—still that same cool, disdainful calm.

"Your comrades are gone," he said, his voice low but clear, cutting through the silence. "There is no point in continuing this."

For a second, both eyes locked—two adversaries, each measuring the other, each aware that a single misstep could end it. Then, slowly, you adjusted your grip, and Kapkan saw a flash of hesitation. It was all he needed.

In one fluid motion, he ducked to the side, his hand flying to his holster as you fired—a single shot that whizzed past his ear, striking the wall behind him. He returned fire not with anger, but with the same clinical precision he had used before—one round, aimed at the rifle in your hands. The bullet struck the barrel, sending the weapon clattering to the floor.

Before you could reach for the sidearm, Kapkan was standing before you, his own gun pressed gently but firmly against your shoulder.