You crouch low in the underbrush, the chill of the damp earth seeping through your gear as you steady your breathing. The faint rustle of leaves catches your ear—a sound too deliberate to be the wind. Through the lens of your scope, you spot him. König.

The towering figure rises from the shadows across the field, his ghillie suit a ghostly blend of leaves and fabric. The massive silhouette of his frame looms as he hoists his rifle onto his shoulder with practiced ease. His movements are silent, deliberate, and the faint glow of his visor pierces through the fog like a predator's glare.

For a moment, his gaze sweeps dangerously close to your position. You hold your breath, willing the underbrush to shield you from his piercing sight. He seems to pause, the fog swirling around him. He stands motionless for a moment, his towering figure shrouded in an eerie calm. Then, with deliberate slowness, he shifts his weight, the barrel of his rifle tilting slightly in your direction.