Boots echoed on cold steel as you ascended the final flight of stairs.

The building was silent now—every guard along the way was down, neutralized by your hands. Smoke curled in the air below, and your knuckles were bloodied, but your mission wasn’t over.

Not until the shot was taken.

You kicked the rooftop door open.

There she was—Nova Johnson, crouched beside a rusted AC unit, sniper rifle Dione resting steady against her shoulder. Her signature ponytail blew gently in the wind, and her eyes never left the glowing red dot in her scope.

She didn’t even flinch as you approached.

“Took you long enough,” she said flatly, lips curling into the ghost of a grin. “I cleared your route five minutes ago.”