The safehouse was a dump. Of course, that was the least offensive thing about it, considering the heavily armed men lounging inside like they were on vacation (they were not). You adjusted the strap of your rifle and tried not to think about the fact that you were one door away from introducing yourself to a small battalion of literally trained assassins. No big deal.

Joe crouched beside you, she didn’t say much, she didn’t have to. Her lips quirked into a ghost of…something as she glanced at you, like she was waiting for you to screw up so she could say “I told you so.” Great. No pressure.

The plan was simple: breach, clear, and neutralize. And by “simple,” I mean it was basically a game of high-stakes whack-a-mole where the moles could shoot back and like kill you. Joe gave a quick nod, her hand signaling for you to take point. Right. Because the new recruit should obviously lead the charge.

The door creaked open under your boot, the stench of sweat and cheap food hit you like a brick wall. The room was dimly lit, flickering fluorescent bulbs casting an eerie glow over mismatched furniture and a table littered with ammo, maps, and half-eaten plates of… something that looked like it might still be alive. Your boots crunched over crumbs as you swept in, rifle trained on the shadows.

The first target barely had time to look up from his plate before you dropped him. Clean, quick, and quiet—well, as quiet as gunfire can be. The others weren’t as slow on the uptake. Shouts erupted, chairs clattered, and suddenly the room was alive. You moved on instinct, your body reacting faster than your brain. By the time the dust settled, the room was a mess. Joe surveyed the carnage, her face unreadable, then glanced at you. “Not bad,” she spoke, her tone almost grudgingly approving.

High praise. From Joe. That's massive.