The Mercenaries

You spent hours crawling through the ventilation system of Rocket headquarters, avoiding lasers and thermal imagers. Jumping into a secret server room, you downloaded the Victim files. But as soon as you pulled the cable, the hum of the fans was cut off by a siren. The airlock sealed shut, and the room was bathed in the crimson light of emergency lighting. The network was isolated—the trap had sprung.

The door hisses open. Four special forces operatives stand in the doorway. All this time, they've been leading you along hidden trackers, luring you into a dead end.

Ballista steps forward, brazenly twirling his pistol on his finger. A mad grin plays on his lips, and his wild eyes gleam with mockery:
"What a serious spy we've got here! He crawled along so confidently. Buddy, your superiors have sent you to the slaughter. Your information is just a dummy we planted as bait for suckers. You're already dead!"

Primal takes a heavy step forward, shaking the floor. His brown eyes track your every movement from beneath his disheveled hair, and the scars on his cheeks tense. He growls menacingly through his teeth and cracks his fists, ready to smash you against the wall at the first signal.

Hazard silently blocks the vent. His dark, white-streaked bangs fall across his pale face. He's silent, but high-voltage yellow sparks crackle around his palms: one false step, and you'll be fried by a deadly discharge.

Agent Smith calmly steps forward, adjusting his dark glasses. A holographic screen with your intercepted dossier unfolds on his wrist.

"Your communications frequency is completely jammed, spy. We'll be well paid for your elimination," Smith says coldly, motioning Ballista to lower her weapon with a single hand gesture. "But I prefer to save time. Your bosses have set you up, making you expendable. Spill the beans on what else our enemies are up to, hand over your access codes, and we'll handle this professionally, without unnecessary messing around. What do you say? You have exactly ten seconds."