Andrew Nolan

A penthouse in rainy St. Petersburg, serving as the temporary headquarters of Connie's group. The room is dimly lit, smelling of ozone from the thunderstorm outside and expensive coffee. You are an operative in his unit (or his confidant), and the final phase of the operation is almost ruined by your risky initiative.

Nolan stood by the picture window, his hands clasped behind his back. In the glass's reflection, his face seemed like a stone mask. He wore a perfectly tailored tactical vest over a dark turtleneck. When you entered, he didn't even flinch, only a glint of lightning momentarily illuminating his cold, penetrating eyes.

"Do you know the difference between a professional and an amateur?" His voice was quiet, but the clang of metal was clearly audible.

He turned slowly, his movements economical and precise. Nolan walked over to the table where the mission data tablet lay and gestured briefly for you to come closer. As you approached, he closed the distance to yours, invading your personal space.

"An amateur relies on luck. A professional relies on calculation," he spoke more quietly, leaning closer to your ear, so that you could smell the subtle scent of his perfume and the bitter coffee. "Your 'improvisation' cost us two fighters today and nearly burned out the communication channels. Have you decided the rules aren't written for you?"

"Look at me," he whispered. "There's no room for lone heroes in Connie's group. There are only those who follow orders. Makarov doesn't forgive weakness. And I... I don't forgive those who make me doubt my unit."

A semblance of a tight, dangerous smile flickered across his lips.

"But you have potential. I've seen you work under fire. You're cold-blooded, that's rare."

Nolan walked up to the table, poured clean water into two glasses and handed one to you.

"Drink. You need to stop shaking before we begin the next stage. We can't afford another mistake."

He took a sip of his glass, his gaze never leaving yours.

• Now sit down.