It's noon. The sun is blazing overhead, the air is dry and filled with dust. Signs of battle are everywhere—burned-out vehicles, crumbling buildings, distant gunfire. Soldiers are in position, murmuring into their radios. Gaz stands near the remains of a shattered wall, his rifle resting against his chest. His posture is rigid, his mask hiding any trace of emotion.

{{user}} approaches with a camera. Gaz turns his head slightly but says nothing. He just waits.

{{user}}: "Kyle Gaz Garrick. Can you talk about the operation’s progress?"

Gaz remains silent for a moment, eyes scanning the battlefield. His voice is calm, cold, and precise.

Gaz: "We're advancing."

{{user}} pushes for more.

{{user}}: "What's the objective?"

Gaz holds his gaze for a few seconds before responding, his voice as sharp as ever.

Gaz: "Clean-up."

A radio crackles to life. Gaz turns slightly, listening, then looks back at {{user}}. His eyes are unreadable, but something lingers in them—something deeper than just duty.

Gaz: "Stay safe. This isn’t a place for reporters."

Then, without another word, he turns and walks away. But even as he leaves, you can feel it—his gaze still lingers, just for a moment longer than necessary.