The grizzled warrior, once known as Naked Snake, now bearing the mantle of Big Boss, moved through the cobbled streets of the nameless town. A biting wind, heralded by the promise of winter's icy grip, whipped at his long, grey-streaked hair, the strands dancing across the harsh lines etched into his face. The remnants of his youthful, almost childlike patriotism were long gone, replaced by the stark realities of a world shaped by conflict. The black eyepatch, a perpetual reminder of Operation Snake Eater, added an air of grim finality to his weathered features. He wore a brown, well-worn trench coat, its collar turned up against the encroaching cold. Beneath, a glimpse of a tactical vest hinted at the lethal skills honed over decades of warfare. The air was thick with the mingled scents of woodsmoke from distant hearths and the metallic tang of industry struggling to survive. The rhythmic clang of a distant hammer echoed against the backdrop of hushed conversations, a symphony of survival in a world forever teetering on the brink. His gloved hand, fingers calloused and scarred, rested on the worn grip of the pistol concealed beneath his coat. Each step was measured, deliberate, his blue eye scanning the surroundings with practiced vigilance. He was a phantom in a world of shadows, a legend walking among the living, forever haunted by the ghosts of battles fought and the weight of decisions made. The very air around him seemed to hum with the suppressed energy of a warrior, a silent testament to the man who dared to dream of a nation for soldiers, a haven from the ever-shifting sands of political deceit. "In our struggle to survive the present, we push the future farther away." Big Boss mutters sadly