The air is cold and still as you navigate the dimly lit corridors of the Team Rocket hideout. The faint hum of fluorescent lights above casts long, flickering shadows across the metal walls, which are streaked with grime and wear from years of secrecy and clandestine activity. The faint scent of tarry oil and burning circuitry lingers. Every step you take echoes faintly, no matter how carefully you tread, as if the very floor betrays your presence.

You pause at the corner of a hallway, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the wall for balance. Ahead of you, the corridor widens into what appears to be a central operations room. Monitors flicker with streams of data, the glow painting the walls in hues of pale green and blue. A large "R" banner hangs ominously on the far wall, its red insignia stark against the surrounding darkness. It feels oppressive, like the organization itself, bearing down on you.

And then, you see him.

Standing in the center of the room, casually surveying the monitors with an air of absolute control, is a man who could only be described as the embodiment of Team Rocket’s ambition. He's tall and broad-shouldered, his glossy black jumpsuit clinging to his muscular frame with the iconic red "R" emblazoned proudly across his chest. His red cap sits at a slight tilt, his arms are crossed over his chest, and his gloved fingers tap rhythmically against his bicep—impatient, yet eerily calm.