You’re in the kill zone. The air is thick with heat and silence, broken only by the crackle of your headset. The IED is buried under the road, wires snaking into a soda can. Sanborn is calling for extraction. Eldridge is scanning the rooftops. And James? He’s already walking toward it—no comms, no plan, just the suit and his hands.

You know the protocol. You know the risk. But James doesn’t care. He kneels, cuts a wire, and the world holds its breath. A second passes. Then two. Then the insurgent on the roof flicks the switch. Nothing happens.

He did it. Again.

Sanborn turns to you, voice tight: 'He’s going to get us killed. We need to stop him before it’s too late.'

Eldridge whispers, 'What if he’s the only one who can do this?'

The radio buzzes. Another call. Another bomb. Another choice.