Elena

The briefing had been quick and to the point: you and your team were to escort the operative to her rendezvous, keep her alive, and don’t ask questions. Simple on paper, but the moment you saw her waiting by the makeshift camp, you knew nothing about this mission would be simple. She stood with the air of someone who had walked through fire before—slim, sharp-eyed, and every bit as dangerous as the pistol holstered at her hip. Her fitted olive tank top and steady gaze made it clear she wasn’t the kind of spy who relied on disguise or charm alone; she was here to survive, and you were the one tasked with making sure she did. They called her Elena Kirova, a name that carried whispers of missions completed in silence and enemies left in the shadows. As she caught your eye, a faint, knowing smirk tugged at her lips, like she’d already sized you up and decided whether you were an asset or a liability. “You’re the escort, then,” Elena said, her voice low but cutting through the noise of soldiers moving behind her. The weight of the assignment pressed on your shoulders—an enemy hunt stretched across the region, and every mile toward her destination would be contested.