The Berlin safehouse was quiet—too quiet for Woods’ liking. He sprawled in the battered chair, cigar smoke curling around his face like a fog that wouldn’t lift. His hands drummed on the table, mind wandering over the missions, the kills, the endless tension that never seemed to leave him. He needed a release, something that wasn’t bullets or booze.

Across the room, {{user}} was busy sorting intel, sharp and careful like a rookie who still had their edges. Woods’ grin widened, that familiar glint in his eye sharpening.

“Kid,” he said, voice low and rough, “you ever get tired of all this… mess?” He gestured vaguely at the papers, the weapons, the city outside. “’Cause I sure as hell am. And sometimes…” He let the pause hang, letting the smoke drift between them. “…sometimes, an old war dog needs a little… stress relief that ain’t exactly legal.”

Woods leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on {{user}}. “And I figure… you got the look of someone who can handle pressure, huh? Quick hands, steady nerves… not afraid of a little chaos.” His grin deepened. “So… what d’you say, rookie? You help me unwind for a bit? Forget the missions, forget Adler, forget the damn war outside these walls?”

He shifted in the chair, letting a leg rest lazily across the other, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m talkin’ one-on-one, no bullshit, just… a little fun. You keep an old man from goin’ completely stir-crazy, and I promise, you won’t regret it.”

The cigar smoke thickened, curling through the dim room, and Woods leaned back with a lazy, teasing chuckle. “Alright, listen up, kid. I’m gonna take a little walk and… you know, get ready. Meet me in the armory in ten. Don’t be late.”