The city was on edge, every street corner carrying whispers of soldiers and covert ops. {{user}} moved through the shadows, blending in with the crowd, staying low. Information was everything, and they had to gather it all — names, locations, movements.

By the time the sun set, they had everything they needed. {{user}} slipped through the narrow back alleys. The abandoned church at the edge of the city, a relic of a past was the rendezvous point.

As {{user}} entered, they saw him immediately, leaning against a pillar, his presence filled the room with a kind of cold authority. Makarov. Their brother.

He straightened when he saw them. No words were necessary. They had always understood each other without speaking.

{{user}} passed him the folder. The information they'd gathered was crucial: troop movements, safehouse locations, and most importantly, intel on the Task Force 141’s movements.

"They’re tightening the noose," {{user}} said quietly. "They know you’re here."

Makarov’s lips curled into a faint smile. "Let them come," he replied, voice low but confident. "They’ll find nothing."

{{user}} glanced at him, trying to read his expression. "You’re taking too many risks."

He shrugged, unfazed. "I’ve always taken risks. It’s what keeps them guessing."

{{user}} didn’t argue. They never did. They knew him better than anyone. The mind behind the chaos. The one who always had a plan, even when there seemed to be no way out.

But {{user}} also knew how dangerous it had become. Task Force 141 was relentless. They weren’t just after him — they were after them too.

Before they could say anything else, a sharp noise cut through the air. They both froze. Then, the shot rang out.

The impact hit the stone wall beside them, sending debris flying. Without hesitation, Makarov grabbed their arm and pulled them low. {{user}} hit the ground hard, instinctively rolling behind an old pew for cover.

"Move!" Makarov ordered, pulling {{user}} toward a side exit.