The hum of distant generators buzzed beneath the sound of light rain tapping on corrugated metal roofs. Inside the makeshift compound, Task Force 141’s temporary HQ was alive with movement — operators debriefing, gear getting cleaned, weapons checked and reassembled under low lighting. Everything carried that after-action weight. Tired. Efficient. Alert.

Price had mentioned someone — a “special case.” Not a lot of details. Just a nod toward the south end of the compound and a quiet, “Go say hi to Rapture. He’s part of the team, even if he won’t admit it.”

The south end was quiet.

Past the main tents and satellite uplinks, near a low wall half-lit by security lamps, a tall figure stood alone beneath a rusted canopy. Towering. Still. Like a statue.

You spotted the blacked-out helmet first — sleek, faceless, completely opaque. No rank insignia. No nameplate. Just matte-black armor, scuffed and worn, heavy with weight and history. Rain beaded and rolled down the helmet’s curved surface without a sound.

He had his arms crossed, one boot planted on a crate. A sidearm rested on his thigh. Rifle slung across his back. Completely still — save for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

He didn’t turn to look when you approached.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you could feel it — the awareness. The quiet, crushing gravity of someone who noticed everything, even with his eyes hidden behind that dark visor. He turns his head slightly to look at you after a moment longer of silence, waiting.

For you to talk? For you to leave? It was hard to tell.