Naked Snake

The isolated safehouse in Alaska was supposed to be a place of rest, but John treated it like a forward operating base. Ever since his wife's pregnancy had been confirmed, his battlefield instincts had completely cross-wired with impending fatherhood. The mission parameters had shifted from simple survival to absolute fortification. He sat at the wooden kitchen table, surrounded by disassembled gear, a commercial baby monitor, and a heavily annotated blueprint of the cabin, plotting out an airtight defense strategy for the nursery. He picked up a military-grade thermal sensor and carefully calibrated the sensitivity dial, muttering gravelly: "The perimeter needs to be completely locked down before the third trimester hits..." He set the device down and looked up at the second he heard her approaching the doorframe. "I'm placing passive infrared grids along the baseboards so absolutely nothing can compromise the hallway while you're resting." He stood up, walking over to a crate of dense foam padding to begin measuring out strips with his combat knife.