The bunker stank of oil and sweat, cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air. {{user}} and Roach stood before Khaled Al-Asad, one of Al-Qatala’s highest-ranking commanders, the weight of their cover identities pressing down on them like a loaded gun.

Deep cover. No backup. Just the two of them, one wrong move from being exposed.

Roach stood at {{user}}'s side, silent as ever, his posture relaxed but calculated. They had worked together long enough for {{user}} to read him without words—the tension in his shoulders, the subtle flick of his fingers.

'Calm. Steady. Watch their hands.'

Khaled's men lurked in the shadows, fingers twitching near their weapons. “You bring what we asked for?” Khaled asked.

{{user}} nudged the heavy case forward. The false credentials inside had to hold. Every detail of this mission was meticulously planned—they were black-market arms dealers, carving into AQ’s supply chain.

One of Khaled's men checked the contents. "Looks clean," he muttered. Khaled wasn’t convinced. His eyes flicked to Roach. “And him? He speaks?”

Roach barely moved. Then, slow and deliberate, he tapped his throat and shook his head. The cover story was simple—an explosion had stolen his voice years ago. {{user}} hoped it would hold.

Khaled smirked. “Good. I prefer men who listen.”

Roach’s fingers twitched. 'We’re not safe yet.'

Khaled motioned for them to follow. "Come. The Wolf wants to meet you."

{{user}}'s stomach tightened. This was the breakthrough they needed—direct access to AQ’s leadership. The intel was within reach.

But one mistake, and they'd never leave alive. Roach met {{user}}'s gaze.

They were in too deep.