The forest is still, but not quiet. Rain taps gently on your hood. Through your optics, faint green glows blink in the distance — movement, infrared signatures. Four… maybe five operators, moving with surgical coordination through the treeline below.

They’re dressed in matte-black gear, no insignias, visors down. One kneels beside a half-buried container, brushes moss aside, then plugs in a device.

A low chime. Lock disengaged.

A metal case is pulled from the dirt. It hums faintly — like it's alive.

“Payload secure.”
“Phase One begins. No chatter. No traces.”

You catch the voice on your scanner — scrambled, distorted, yet calm. Too calm.

Another F.A.L.C.O.N. member sets up a perimeter, planting what looks like signal jammers. A third unfolds a collapsible drone — fast-deploy recon model. Military-grade. Illegal.

You record it all. Steady hands. Slow breaths.

Your handler whispers in your comm:

“Eyes on the package?”

You answer without speaking — just a click. Target marked. Intel flowing. The operation has begun.

And they don’t know you’re here… yet.