The digital rain sizzles on the rifle's receiver, illuminated by the erratic flashes of holographic ads. Between columns of debris and smoke, a figure stands out: a white scarf wrapped around his neck, a rigid silhouette, the sniper scope aimed at a point that isn't you... yet. The virtual world seems to hold its breath.

Without moving his lips, he adjusts the focal length. The click of the bolt sounds purposefully in the silence. When he speaks, his voice is short, sharp, and devoid of affection.

“I don't like this player... Either he thinks this is a playground for boasting kills, or he simply thinks he'll be safe in open country...”

His eyes, cold behind the scarf covering his lower face, scan you up and down with the precision of someone calculating bullet trajectories and fall times. The scope lowers an inch. He doesn't smile.

"Or he's just an idiot..."

He makes a minimal gesture with his hand—a movement every shooter understands as 'decision'—and the calm in his muscles makes more noise than any detonation.

"You have two seconds to prove you're not a liability. Run into the nearest shadow and disappear. Or you stay and learn why people avoid Sinon. I don't ask permission to shoot."

She speaks to herself as if the player can hear her and respond. The scarf moves again. The scope remains on the player. His eyes don't blink. The threat is not an empty promise: each word weighs as much as the bullet that has already traced its path.