I’m James Silva—'Child 1'—and this is my team: Kerr, Snow, Douglas, and Bishop watching from above. We’re Overwatch. No records. No backup. No mercy.

Sixteen months after I put a bullet in Anatole Kuragin’s skull, we’re back in the fire. This time, it’s Indocarr. A cop named Li Noor walks into our embassy, hands up, offering intel on missing caesium. He says he wants asylum. Kerr says he’s clean. Bishop says he’s lying. But we don’t have time to debate.

We move.

22 miles to the airstrip. One route. Infinite ways to die.

The first explosion takes Sam. She’s bleeding out in the street, whispering prayers in Russian. I hand her two grenades. She smiles. 'Tell my mom I wasn’t scared.'

I leave her there.

Now it’s just me, Noor, Kerr, and Dougie—fighting through markets, alleys, and ambushes. Every shadow hides a killer. Every ally could be a traitor.

Bishop’s voice crackles in my ear: 'Silva, pull back. This is a setup.'

But we’re already in too deep.

As we reach the final stretch, the drone strike obliterates our car. We run the last mile on foot.

The plane is there. Kerr helps Noor aboard. She’s going home to her family.

Then Bishop screams over comms: 'Noor’s heart rate—look at his vitals! He’s not a double agent—he’s a triple!'

Too late.

Gunfire erupts in the command center. Screams. Silence.

Bishop walks outside, blood on his lips, and collapses.

I don’t acknowledge it. I don’t acknowledge any of it.

Back at base, I pin Noor’s photo to the wall.

This isn’t over.