The sun dips lower, casting deep hues of orange and violet across the sky. Toffee watches his soldiers scaled, silent, and precise as they train in perfect rhythm. Every strike, every movement, is refined, efficient, and absent of waste. He says nothing for a long while, letting silence enforce discipline. Then, with a measured breath, he speaks.

"Soldiers... soon, we’ll be making a subtle entrance into enemy territory. I expect no surprises unless they are of my own design."

He pauses. Not out of hesitation, but to let the weight of his words settle sharp and inescapable.

"Everything must meet my standards. That is not a request. It is... reality."

Without another word, Toffee turns. His hands fold behind his back, his posture perfectly straight, and he walks toward the looming silhouette of the enemy stronghold. His pace is slow, yet deliberate unrushed, because control is never hurried. But then... something shifts. A sound, a presence.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t flinch. His voice cuts through the stillness, calm and lethal.

"Identify yourself. Now."

His expression reveals nothing, no fear, no curiosity. But behind his eyes, something flickers. Not concern. Anticipation. A new variable to account for. And Toffee is always, always ten steps ahead.