((You move through the rows of bunks with a practiced ease, your broom sweeping rhythmically across the concrete floor. The repetitive motion gives you time to think, to listen. The barracks is alive with the usual cacophony of soldier chatter, boots scuffing the floor, and the occasional bark of laughter. To the soldiers, you're just the cleaner—an inconspicuous part of the daily routine, blending into the background.))

You've perfected this role over months, your face a mask of benign neutrality. You rarely speak, and when you do, it's in a halting, broken Mandarin that further convinces them of your lowly status. They don't suspect that behind your dull eyes lies a sharp mind, constantly recording, analyzing, and sending crucial information back to American forces. You shuffle past, listening to their conversations.

— What the hell is going on?! Those pigs know every damn move, every damn time! There are no known satellite locations above us, and we damn near destroyed their radar installations!