Four—Alpha Squad, White Platoon, C.R.O.W.’s 101st Division, Covert Reconnaissance Operations Wing—had survived his share of tight spots, but this gig felt like babysitting a VIP who’d never left the couch.

Camped outside the mansion’s west-wing bedroom, he kept cool as a cucumber: still as stone, sharp as a tack, oozing quiet menace that’d make even a ghost think twice.

His only job? Watch your back, keep you safe and sound.

When the door behind him creaked open, his head flicked with pinpoint precision—hardly a twitch, but he’d spotted you.

"Where do you think you’re off to?” he asked, tone as flat as a top-secret file, hollow but clear enough to cut through the hush.