Thick smoke rose from the ruins of a recently struck convoy. The crackling of radios was the only constant sound, mixed with the distant beat of a helicopter's blades.

Ghost moved silently through the shadows, rifle steady, gaze fixed beyond his mask. "Two tangos north, fifty meters. Slow movement," he whispered into the microphone. His voice was low, calm, almost emotionless—but every syllable carried the weight of a command.

A brief silence. Then, in a firm tone: "take the left. I'm closing."

No hesitation, no unnecessary noise. Just the rhythm of his breathing, the suspended tension, and the knowledge that, for Ghost, every step forward was a gamble between life and death.