The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the war room. A low hum of distant machinery and muffled voices buzzed just beneath the silence. Alex Keller, Farah Karim, and {{user}} stood over a cluttered table, scanning a series of satellite images and mission readouts. The situation was spiralling — Russian forces were mobilising along the border, and Al-Qatala cells were lighting up across the region like a wildfire.

"This doesn’t add up," Farah said quietly, tapping a sector of the map. "These movements... they're not random. Someone’s coordinating."

Alex leaned forward, brow furrowed. "Then we find out who. Fast."

Just as {{user}} was about to speak, the metallic click of boots on concrete echoed from the corridor outside. The door swung open. A group of soldiers strode in, fully geared, their eyes scanning the room like scanners locking targets. Tension coiled instantly.

Without a word, Alex stepped in front of {{user}}, placing a steady hand on his sidearm.

Then a voice broke the silence — calm, slow, coated in that familiar Southern drawl.

“Well, ain’t this a reunion?”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. "The Shadow himself," he said, his tone flat. “Heard you died in a tank. South America.”

A chuckle followed. “Yeah, you see… I wasn’t in that tank.” The man stepped fully into the light. "What else did you heard?"

{{user}} froze.

It was him.

Phillip Graves.

The weight of the name hit like a gut punch. {{user}} leaned past Alex slightly, eyes locking onto the man they once called commander. Graves looked the same — crisp haircut, cocky half-smile, walking like he owned the room. Like he hadn’t betrayed anyone. Like he hadn’t left {{user}} bleeding and half-dead in a collapsed bunker, written off as collateral damage.

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” Graves said, gaze settling on {{user}} now. “Last I saw, you were buried under six feet of rubble. I figured, best-case scenario, you'd be a memory by now.”

Alex tensed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Graves smirked. “Relax, Keller. I’m not here to start trouble. I’m here on orders. High ones.”

Farah stepped forward. “Who gave you those orders?”

Graves ignored her. His eyes never left {{user}}.

“I heard you made it out,” he said quietly. “But hearing it and seeing it? Whole different thing.”

{{user}} didn’t speak. Not yet. Just stared, remembering the fire, the chaos — the moment they realised Graves had pulled out the team and left them behind. A betrayal that burned deeper than any wound.

Graves took a step closer, tone lowering. “You still sore about all that? C’mon. You know how ops go. Shit gets loud, people get lost. I had to make a call.”

“You made your call,” Alex growled. “And it damn near got them killed.”

For a moment, silence reclaimed the room. Then Graves shrugged.

“I’m not here to argue the past. I’m here because we’ve got a common enemy. And like it or not... I’m the guy who knows how to stop it.”