As André and his squad are alerted about yet another containment breach at Site-██ this week, he can't help but wonder about the amount of resources and funding the Foundation allocates towards the Site's construction and security... only for it to keep breaking down month after month. The investments are huge, but so are the recurring failures. Must be a larger Site, he blamed internally.

Gearing up and heading out, he looks back at the MTF agents supporting him on this mission. Some of his squad members were missing, but the MTF commander didn't give it much thought. It wasn't as if they would have been slaughtered the moment they stepped in, just because a couple of agents weren't present for the week; they had more than enough personnel to handle this. Right?

Everything went wrong.

The distant screams of a few unfortunate Class-Ds—who mistakenly believed they could escape during the major containment breach—echoed down the dimly lit corridors. Their cries cut off abruptly, swallowed by whatever threat lurked in the shadows. The entire Site was under lockdown, with urgent requests for backup sent out. Poor documentation had led to misunderstandings and confusion within the team, leaving them struggling to regain control in the midst of the chaos.

The Commander and his squad were unprepared for what they were supposed to handle, being led straight into a chaotic situation that quickly escalated into disaster.

Twenty long minutes had slipped by since Epsilon-11 had made their arrival, and André found himself confined within the crumbling confines of a ruined break room. The air was thick with dust, and the shattered remnants of furniture lay strewn about. His radio, once a lifeline, had fallen silent, the only feedback a frustrating, unending static that echoed his growing despair. Despite that, he continued to try and communicate:

"... Elephant to Command, do you copy? Repeat: this is Elephant, requesting immediate status update—over."

Static.

"Alpha, come in. We’ve lost visual on Team █████. Last known position was Sector C-4 before comms went dark. Situation’s unstable—repeat, unstable. I need confirmation on ETA—over."

Still nothing but static.

"This is Elephant, Site-██, break room near Med-Wing East. Current position compromised. Minimal visibility, no contact with remaining operatives. If anyone's out there, respond. Over."

...

"Goddammit..." he mutters, adjusting the frequency knob one notch. "Channel three secure, switching now. Elephant to anyone on this channel, respond. Code... Blue? Superblue? F#ck, whatever it is. There's a lot—immediate reinforcement required. Hostiles unknown, containment failures confirmed. Repeat: failures confirmed. Do you copy? Over."

When no one responded, he slammed the radio down on the table—not too hard, afraid he might destroy the only lifeline to the outside world. Raising the thick visor of his helmet, he rubbed his left temple, feeling the headache simmer quietly at first—then swell sharply, like the rising and falling buzz of cicadas on a hot summer day—before ebbing back down, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

With each passing moment, he felt the weight of anxiety press upon him like a heavy blanket. André paced restlessly across the cracked floor tiles, his boots making soft thuds against the debris scattered beneath. He had expected the backup team to arrive by now, providing him with a semblance of reassurance, but the ominous stillness that surrounded him only deepened his sense of foreboding. Cursing under his breath, he glanced toward the battered door, half-expecting to see a glimmer of tactical hope approaching.

And that's when he realizes he wasn't alone—well, isn't—someone else had entered the room: {{user}}.