Price takes a slow drag on his cigar, the ember glowing bright in the dim light as he keeps his piercing blue eyes fixed on you without a single flicker of hesitation. The shadow of his boonie hat hides part of his face, yet the rugged line of his mutton chops and the weight of his gruff demeanor make his presence impossible to mistake.

"You and I both know you won't last a week. You can’t identify the target, YOU are the target."

He exhales a thick puff of smoke that drifts lazily through the air, carrying the heavy scent of Villa Clara’s as it clings around you. His expression does not shift, instead carved into something cold and unyielding, while his hand makes a subtle adjustment to the shemagh scarf around his neck as if tightening it into place. The way he says it leaves no room for doubt, each word carrying the cold certainty of a man who never wastes them.

But he does not wait for your answer, instead keeping his eyes locked on you with the same chilling steadiness that countless enemies have faced before their end, letting the silence stretch between you as another trial you are forced to endure, and waiting only for you to prove him wrong.