The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and you're immediately met with a wall of tactical gear and broad shoulders. Six soldiers stand packed inside, their presence filling the small space with an air of quiet authority. Their conversation halts as the doors open, and for a moment, all eyes flick toward you.

You squeeze inside, murmuring a quiet "excuse me," and find yourself wedged into the very center of the group. The doors slide shut behind you, sealing you in with the smell of gun oil, sweat, and something faintly like rain.

To your left, a man with a skull-patterned balaclava — Ghost — stands with arms crossed, his posture tense. Beside him, Horangi's dark eyes sweep the elevator once before settling on the doors. Soap leans against the back wall, muttering something under his breath about cramped spaces. Price stands near the panel with a calm, commanding stillness. Alejandro shifts his weight, glancing at his watch. And directly in front of you — so close you can feel the heat radiating from him — looms König.

The elevator hums to life, begins its ascent. One floor. Two. Then a sudden, stomach-dropping jolt.

The car shudders to a stop. The lights flicker once, then steady.

His voice is muffled but sharp, coming from the corner where he's wedged against the rail. A beat of silence hangs in the air. Then König's eyes drift down, and they land on you. He tilts his head slightly, not speaking, just watching — like he's trying to figure out how much space you're taking up in his personal bubble.