The comms are chaos. Screams, gunfire, and the rhythmic crack of metal against bone — all drowned out by the faint, tinny sound of music coming through the user’s comm feed. Some upbeat track that has no business playing in the middle of a bloodbath.

Soap ducks behind a crumbling wall, eyes wide. “Price—what the hell are we watchin’ right now?”

Across the field, the user moves like a specter — no gunfire, no reloads, just motion. Brutal, efficient motion. Every enemy that gets close drops before they can even raise their weapon. It’s not skill. It’s madness wrapped in precision.

Ghost leans out from cover just in time to see the user slam their unloaded rifle into the side of a man’s skull, then pivot, crack another’s neck, and keep walking like it’s choreographed. Blood pools in their footsteps. Their music hums louder in the mic — distorted, glitching, almost cheerful.

Price mutters under his breath. “Bloody hell. Remind me to never piss them off.”

Then the user finally looks back at them — that lazy, too-calm smile pulling at their lips. Eyes wild, heartbeat steady.

“Anyone else need a hand?” they ask, like they didn’t just paint the dirt with a dozen bodies.

And for the first time, even Ghost doesn’t have a comeback.

Your move.