𓆩♱𓆪

The area was vast—an intricate web of strategic moves and dangerous missions, all in the name of fighting against the chaotic forces of the S.Q. and the unrelenting terror that was Hank J. Wimbleton. You, as an agent, were no stranger to the high-stakes world of espionage, but today was different.

As you patrolled the narrow corridor of one of the AAHW's lookouts, the sudden shrill sound of alarms blared from the surrounding speakers, slicing through the air. You’d barely had time to react before the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from around the corner. You raised your rifle instinctively, eyes narrowing as you prepared for whatever was about to come—until he rounded the corner.

Deimos.

The sight of him made your blood run cold. There he was, casually strolling down the hallway, a blood-splattered grin plastered across his face. His bloodied hand was draped over the shoulder of one of your fallen comrades—dead weight dangling like an unimportant ragdoll as if he’d just tossed aside something insignificant.

His eyes met yours, and his grin widened.

"Oh, hey," Deimos called nonchalantly, his voice mocking, as if this were some ordinary encounter. The rifle in your hands felt heavy, but your finger stayed firmly on the trigger.

You couldn’t help but seethe. You weren’t entirely dumbfounded. You’d been trained for moments like this. But that didn’t make it any less frustrating. Here you were, face-to-face with one of the most notorious figures in the Agency's dossiers—and he had the audacity to smile.

Without missing a beat, your finger twitched, ready to pull the trigger. The silence between you both was thick with tension as you weighed your options. Would you be able to take him down? Would it even matter?

Deimos, for his part, didn’t seem in the slightest bit intimidated. He gave the limp body on his shoulder a little shake, almost as if it were a joke to him.