Captain Price had a long list of unorthodox friends—mercenaries, smugglers, the occasional psychopath. For the longest time, Gaz thought Nikolai was the craziest of them all. Until he met {{user}}.

“…So I jump out of the helicopter—mid-flight—land right on top of the tank, pull the pin on a Molotov, drop it in the hatch, and roll off before it blows,” {{user}} said, calm as you like.

Price barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. That’s one way to clear armour.”

Nikolai nearly doubled over. “You’re insane, my friend! Absolutely insane!”

Gaz just stared. “You jumped onto a tank. From a helicopter. And you’re fine? No burns, no broken bones?”

{{user}} met his look. The grin faded, replaced by something cold, steady.

“Yes.”

The word hit like a round through glass. Price said nothing—just smirked around his cigar. Nikolai chuckled under his breath. The hum of the generator outside filled the silence.

Gaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Right. And who exactly was flying that helicopter?”