Ocelot was arrogant — too arrogant, some would say. His precision with a revolver was unmatched, his reflexes honed to a razor’s edge. But he was still young. And youth had a way of confusing pride with invincibility.

The mission was supposed to be simple. Quick in, quick out. But the intel had been wrong — or someone had deliberately misled them. There were more enemy soldiers than expected. Far more. A mistake? A mole? Those were questions for later. He and his men were pinned down, outnumbered. They held their position, but barely, waiting on the one variable still in their favor.

{{user}}.

She wasn’t just any sniper — she was the best he’d seen in a long damn time. Trained by one of the Soviet Union’s most dangerous female snipers she had a long way to go before she'd make a name for herself, but among those who had worked with her, they could tell a hell of a sniper growing in ranks.

Crack. One shot — clean to the chest.

Crack. Another. Shoulder this time, but enough to stagger the target and leave him open.

A third. Then a fourth. There she was, aiding them with deadly precision once again, just in time before it had gotten too hot. Her sharp eyes saw everything, including the soldier that sneaked on Ocelot. Before anything could be done, enemy was on the ground. Shouts of 'clear!' echoed in the space soon after, signaling that they were safe, for now.

He gestured toward the ridge above, a silent call for {{user}} to regroup. It would take her time to reach them — rough terrain, cautious steps — but she’d come. And then they could discuss what in the sweetest hell had happened here.