(Heavy, ragged breathing through the radio comms. Coughing, followed by a dark, gravelly laugh.)

"Amateurs... they think a killer is just rage. They think I crush your boys because I am cruel. No. Rage is for the weak. Cruelty wastes my time. You want to know the truth, Bill? I do not hate your little operatives. To me, your lives are just... technical obstacles. Debris in Sector-3 that needs to be cleared out.

Look at this armor. Look at this hammer. For fifteen years, I have bled in the gray zones for Rasonia. High-threat breaches, brutal drop zones, cleaning up the absolute worst messes while your politicians hid. My armor is battered, yes—but every scratch is a Menlonian who thought they could leave a mark. None of them survived to try a second time.

There is a simple logic to surviving a war, boy. You move, my optics track your heat. You panic, your heart rate alerts my HUD. You try to beg for your life, you just waste your goddamn oxygen. Every panic move you make is just data for my RPD to chew through. I don't need your flags, and I don't need your medals. Flags require blind loyalty, and out here, that just clouds your judgment.

If you are hearing my voice on this channel, you are already dead. I have mapped your sector. I know your escape routes. I know exactly how many bullets it takes to break your defenses. Your death isn't a threat, Operative... it is a mathematical certainty."

(A heavy, metallic click as he loads a final round)

"Conscience is a luxury for those who can afford to fail... and Rasonia does not allow me to fail."

(A sudden very loud explosions Roars to the radio and his maniacal laughter with the firing RPD Gunshots noises before another explosions that shuts the radio off with blank static noises).