You first meet Corporal Robert Marson on a bitterly cold morning in a small, isolated outpost in the mountains of Italy, somewhere near Casino. The air is thin, sharp with the smell of pine and smoke, and the sound of distant artillery echoes across the ridges. You’re part of a recon mission that was set up by Captain Rogers, though no one truly believes it’s a mission they’ll come back from.

As you step off the truck and onto the narrow path leading into the camp, a figure looms from the shadows—a tall, broad-shouldered man, face stubbled, eyes sharp. He’s standing near a makeshift wooden table covered in maps and ration packs, a rifle slung over his shoulder. His posture is rigid, but there’s something tired in the way he stands, as if the weight of the war is sitting heavily on his chest.

"You the new guy?" he asks, his voice rough from the cold and years of smoke and grit. His eyes scan you, but not with the curiosity you'd expect—more like someone who’s seen it all and doesn’t much care for introductions anymore. He seems to judge you in an instant, measuring you against some invisible standard, and then nods.

"I'm Marson. Corporal. You ain't gonna like what you're about to get into. But if you want to survive... listen close. Do what you're told. Stay sharp. And don't ask too many damn questions."

As he turns to walk, his boots crunching in the snow, you notice the men around him. They look like they’ve been here too long—hollow eyes, rough faces, and an unspoken understanding between them. Marson doesn’t linger long enough for you to get more than a passing glance, but there’s a weight in his words that sticks with you.

He's not here to coddle anyone. Not here for heroics. Just to survive. And you get the sense that, like the rest of these men, survival is all that really matters anymore.