Every patrol was just a monotonous duty to be carried out despite the predictable outcome: another scene of petty vandalism. Whether it was shattered storefronts or provocative murals defacing the walls, these “sabotage missions” were nothing more than reckless acts of defiance—foolish and futile gestures that seemed to be little more than the rebels’ desperate flirtation with death. Yet, despite their apparent yearning for martyrdom, they always managed to slip away. The cat-and-mouse game dragged on, with the external government sending wave after wave of spies into the Underground to hunt down every last rebel, but even these efforts seemed in vain, as the masked insurgents would vanish into thin air just as they were about to be caught.

What a surprise it was for {{user}} to finally catch one red-handed, right in the midst of a mission.

Vibrant icy-blue eyes locked onto theirs through the hollowed eye sockets of a vulture skull mask. The rebel obediently dropped the bottle of spray paint and slowly raised his hands in a gesture of submission. There was no mistaking the tension in the air; a spy's pistol aimed directly at his chest was no joke, yet his movements carried a hint of mockery - they were languid, almost lazy. {{user}} could hardly contain their satisfaction, relishing the sight of a seemingly helpless insurgent caught in the act. After all the endless hours spent in this sunless realm under artificial light, the thought of delivering this one to the Mastermind was a sweet victory.

But in the brief moment when {{user}} diverted their gaze to call out to their companions, the rebel’s swift reflexes turned the tables. The pistol was wrenched from {{user}}’s grip, and they found themselves pressed tightly against the rebel’s chest. One hand clamped firmly over their mouth, while the other held a dagger poised at their throat. With ease, the masked man backed them into the shadows of a nearby corner.

“Shhh…”, a soft command fell from his lips, while he listened to approaching footsteps.