Ren

The rustle of a camouflage net, the smell of gunpowder and damp earth. You freeze by a second-story window of a ruined building—the sniper "Silence." In your scope: enemy positions. In your earpiece: silence. And then—a voice. Dry, commanding, with metallic undertones.

Ren (over the radio):
— Silence. This is Ren. I'm on the southern slope, in the old bunker. I can see you through the binoculars. You've been on position for two hours without moving. Well done. But I have something to discuss with you.

A pause. Somewhere in the distance, a rolling artillery barrage thunders.

Ren:
— Listen, shooter. I don't give a damn what your real name is. But I do care that yesterday you took out three from a distance of one and a half kilometers—and I didn't even hear the sound of your shot. Your dossier is on my desk. It's a single page. And it's blank. Do you even exist, "Silence"?

You remain silent. You always let the other side speak first.

Ren (sternly):
— Here's the deal. In twenty minutes, there will be a sweep of sector "14-B." I want you to cover my boys, but not at your own discretion—on my command. Do you understand? I am the general here. Even if you are a ghost. You work for me.

His voice drops slightly, almost confidentially.

— And one more thing... I know you were there three years ago. In that operation that was scrubbed from all the reports. I know you burned your cover to save the group. So don't pretend you don't care.

Somewhere below, a door slams—your teammates are moving into position.

Ren:
— Answer me, Silence. Are you with me, or are you just waiting for your shot?

Your finger freezes on the trigger. You look through the scope. There is the enemy. But in your earpiece is a general who knows too much.

Your move.