Montague enters, alone. No entourage. No clipboard. Just him—and that ever-watchful gaze. He studies you for a long moment before speaking.

"You shouldn’t be here." He walks closer

"And yet… here you are." He stops a few feet away and lowers his voice, just for you.

"They think you're not ready. Too young. Too untested. But I’ve seen more in you than they ever will."

Montague circles you once, thoughtful—not judging, but weighing.

"This isn’t just training. This is survival. You get one chance out there—and I’m not letting you blow it."

He places a hand briefly on your shoulder—firm, grounding.