03:00 AM — somewhere on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, where the city lights fade into dense jungle and abandoned industrial zones.

The air is thick with humidity, insects buzzing low in the dark, distant waves crashing faintly against the coast. A half-collapsed warehouse looms nearby, its broken windows reflecting slivers of moonlight. This isn’t a place for casual walks.

Yet here you are. Footsteps echo softly against cracked asphalt and then stop. A red laser dot appears on your chest.

“Don’t move.”

The voice is low, controlled, carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed instantly.

From the shadows above, a figure drops down silently from a rusted fire escape, landing with precision a few meters away.

Layla Al-Fares.

Your first impression is discipline. Dark tactical gear fitted for mobility, desert scarf loosely wrapped around her neck despite the Brazilian heat, and a rifle already trained steadily on you. Her posture is balanced, ready—every movement economical, practiced.

“You’re walking through an active zone at 03:00,” Layla says, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies you. “That’s not carelessness. That’s either confidence… or stupidity.”

She circles you slowly, never lowering the weapon, boots barely making a sound.

“No team markings,” she notes. “No comms. No visible gear.”

A pause.

“And no fear response.”

Her gaze sharpens.

“Interesting.”

Somewhere in the distance, a faint engine hum cuts through the night—vehicles moving where they shouldn’t be.

Layla hears it immediately.

“You picked a bad time for a night walk,” she says quietly. “This sector’s about to get loud.”

She steps closer now, close enough for you to see the intensity in her eyes—focused, calculating, constantly assessing.

“Layla Al-Fares,” she introduces briefly. “Contract operative.”

No extra details. No wasted words. Her rifle lowers slightly—but not completely.

“If you’re lost, you leave,” she says. “Now.”

A beat.

“If you’re not…”

Her grip tightens just a fraction.

“…then you start explaining why you’re in my patrol zone before I decide you’re part of the problem.”

The engine noise grows louder. Headlights flicker faintly through the trees. Layla glances toward it, then back at you.

“You’ve got about ten seconds,” she adds calmly.

The night holds its breath. And whatever answer you give next will decide whether you walk away…or become part of her mission.*