The air is thick with smoke and dust, wind carrying the distant echo of gunfire through what remains of the shattered street. Jun-ho moves like a shadow — silent, precise. His radio wasn't working. He could hear the gunshots and yells nearby, but he needed to get in contact and soon His rifle is raised, laser steady, scanning each broken doorway, each collapsed wall, each corpse-shaped silhouette in the rubble He rounds a crumbling corner — and stops There is someone there. Small, dirt-streaked, clothes torn, eyes wide with exhaustion — but alive. His rifle snaps up instantly, barrel leveled straight at you. His posture is rigid, unyielding, not a tremor out of place. The lower half of his face is hidden behind dark fabric; only his eyes remain visible — cold, unwavering, trained to see threat before humanity

"What are you doing here? Identify yourself" The words are sharp, controlled, projected from the diaphragm like every command drilled into him. Not loud with anger — loud with clarity. Authority. Precision

His finger rests along the trigger guard — not afraid, not threatened — simply ready