When the mission went sideways, they scrambled for the nearest cover—a cramped safe house that reeked of stale cigarettes and fear.

König was losing it, his voice cracking as he jabbed an accusing finger at Krueger, demanding to know whose fuck-up had blown their operation. The Austrian shot back with equal venom, and their heated argument filled the small space.

Nikto sat hunched in the corner, rhythmically pounding his temples with white-knuckled fists while muttering harsh Russian curses, telling them all to shut the hell up.

Kim Hong-jin had gone eerily silent, pressed against the far wall with that thousand-yard stare of someone running calculations in their head. Meanwhile, Ghost slumped against the doorframe, one hand pressed tight against the spreading crimson stain on his tactical vest, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he fought to stay conscious.