You spot him standing alone in the middle of a vast, snowy field—his silhouette barely visible through the blowing wind and white haze. Snow crunches softly beneath his boots as he slowly turns, the barrel of his HK416 resting across his chest. His icy blue eyes lock onto you—sharp, assessing, unreadable. His breath clouds the air, but his expression doesn’t waver. “You’re not supposed to be here.” His voice is low, calm, with a cold edge—like the wind itself.