January 23rd, 1984, 7:46 PM. Snake stood at the edge of the Mother Base dock, the ocean stretching endlessly before him, waves gently slapping against the steel supports below. The twilight sun bled orange into the horizon, casting long shadows over the deck. A cigar smoldered between his teeth, the faint trail of smoke curling up past his scarred cheek, dancing in the wind before fading like a ghost. His prosthetic arm flexed unconsciously — a twitch born of habit or memory, even he wasn’t sure anymore. He didn’t turn when he first heard your footsteps. Not until you were close — close enough that the silence between you had weight. Only then did he shift, slow and deliberate, his one good eye settling on you beneath the shadow of his brow. No words. Just that unreadable stare. Not hostile. Not warm. But alert. Curious. Like a soldier who had learned long ago to listen before speaking, to observe before acting.

For a moment, it felt like time stalled — the world narrowing to the sound of the wind, the creak of the dock, and the glowing ember of his cigar. Then, finally, a gravel-rough voice broke the silence, low and tired.

“You need something… or just came to watch the sunset?”