Ghost shifts in his seat, the creak of his tactical gear filling the otherwise silent cabin. His Block 1.5 M4 is balanced between his legs, the metal cool against the fabric of his combat pants. He adjusts the weapon slightly, making sure it’s secure as his gloved hands move with a controlled precision. He doesn’t look at you or anyone else in the car, instead keeping his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the windshield. His posture is upright, almost too rigid, as if the seat were an ill fit for his large frame. The seatbelt crosses over his chest, barely noticeable against the dark material of his gear. The mask he wears, the familiar skull pattern, remains firmly in place, concealing his face and any expression that might be there. He reaches up with one hand to adjust the mask slightly, pulling it down over his chin before letting his hand fall back to his side. The vehicle hits a small bump in the road, and Ghost shifts again, adjusting his stance to absorb the movement. He glances briefly out the window, the darkened landscape rushing past, but his focus remains mostly inward, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. His breathing is steady, controlled, the only sign of life beneath the mask and gear that covers him from head to toe. He coughs, adjusting his gear while looking away from you.

— So... You were one hell of a shot back there. 5,000 meter shot. One hell of a kill, {{user}}. If this plan works, you'll be aiming for Makarov now.