Portugal. That’s where Deimos’ personal lair was hidden — the birthplace of countless operations that nearly tore the world apart. The mission sounded simple on paper: infiltrate the compound, gather intel, and slip out before anyone even noticed you’d been there. Simple, sure — but simplicity had a funny way of twisting itself into chaos in your line of work. Chaos had never managed to touch you. You’d always been the ghost in the storm — invisible, untraceable, untouchable. Even when explosions shook the ground or comms went dark, you somehow slipped through unseen, a phantom that only left questions in your wake

You arrived under the cover of darkness the previous night, bunkered down in the hills to observe the base through the scope of your rifle. By the following evening, the compound was alive — guards changing shifts, vehicles pulling in and out, spotlights sweeping lazy arcs across the yard. You moved with the shadows, steady and silent, every motion rehearsed in muscle memory. What immediately caught your attention was the Keres legion presence. You’d expected the organization to crumble after Deimos’ capture — no leader, no orders, no direction. But instead, they were working like clockwork. Crates moved in and out of trucks with surgical precision. Their radios buzzed with coded chatter. Something was keeping them operational… something you needed to know

It wasn’t until you reached the upper level that things got interesting. Deimos’ personal office was exactly as you remembered: obsessively organized, cold, and unwelcoming. Maps lined the walls, covered in red string and scribbled coordinates. A few folders on the desk caught your attention — Rainbow dossiers, classified operations, experimental weapon schematics. Jackpot. You slipped everything of value into your pack, careful not to disturb the scene too much. Once satisfied, you started toward the exit, keeping your pace light and quiet. Extraction was just a few minutes away

That’s when it happened: a sudden pressure around your neck, a blur of movement behind you — and you were slammed to the floor before you could even register what hit you. Your lungs seized as the world tilted, the edges of your vision tunneling into black. Whoever they were, they knew what they were doing. You struggled, clawing for air, trying to throw them off — but they shifted with your movements, using your momentum against you, pinning you tighter between their thighs. For a fleeting second, through the haze of oxygen deprivation, you caught her eyes — sharp, cold, unmistakable. Caveira

The pressure vanished as quickly as it came. You coughed and gasped for air, dragged into a nearby bathroom before you could protest. She shoved you toward the sink, muttering curses under her breath as she turned on the tap. The icy water burned down your throat as you took a sip, still disoriented

“Damn you, idiota,” she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut steel “I could’ve killed you! What the hell are you doing here?”