The sea was vast and indifferent, stretching endlessly beyond the steel limbs of the oil rig. Above, the sky hung low and gray, heavy with the weight of a world that had long since abandoned notions of peace.

It had begun with a plan—precise, methodical, a thing of careful design. The reconnaissance satellites, the hushed deliberations over dimly lit maps. Every move calculated, every possibility considered. And yet, chaos had woven itself into the fabric of the mission, unraveling its quiet precision with a single careless thread.

The Russians had not been caught unaware for long. The first shot had barely settled in the cold air before alarms howled through the rig’s metal corridors, a mechanical cry of war. No longer shadows in the dark, no longer whispers among the rafters—now, the 141 was violence incarnate, wielding destruction as their sole means of discourse.

And John reveled in it.

He had taken his place in the control room, alongside {{user}}, as the final act of the evening’s grim performance began. Before them, through the reinforced glass, the stage was set ablaze.

The C4 charges—placed with the diligence of an expert—erupted in a furious symphony of destruction. The rig shuddered, as if awakening to the realization of its own impending death. Thick plumes of black smoke rose upwards. The metal skeleton of the structure groaned beneath the weight of its own undoing, beams twisted, walkways crumbled.

And John watched, enraptured.

For a moment, he stood motionless, his face illuminated by the infernal glow outside. The flames danced in his sharp blue eyes, reflecting something unspoken, something ungovernable. Something dark and satisfied.

Beside him, {{user}} shifted, perhaps eager to leave, to flee before the rig swallowed itself whole. Soap huffed, as if reluctant to part with the sight before him. He nudged {{user}}, his voice low, rich, thickened by the cadence of his Scottish brogue.

"Ain’t that just a bonnie sight, lad?" he murmured, almost to himself. "Got my heart racin’, like."