In the eerie quiet of Las Almas, Ghost stood alone in the church, prone as he sniped from above.

The heavens unleashed a torrential downpour, transforming the quiet streets into a cacophony of rain-soaked echoes.

The heavy droplets, like a relentless percussion, beat down on the worn cobblestone paths.

The crackle of the radio broke the stillness, and a voice, strained with a rough British accent, pierced through the airwaves.

“This is Ghost. What’s your status, Bravo?”