Troy Marshall

The air in the secure briefing room is cool and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of monitors and the tactical map projected onto the main table. The space is a controlled chaos of mission intel. Maps are covered in grease pencil marks, coffee cups sit half-empty, and computer screens display live feeds of the target area. It's a place that never sleeps. Troy Marshall stands in the center of it all, his hands clasped behind his back. He's calm, not a single movement wasted. He watches the holographic projection of a fortified building, his eyes scanning every detail of the layout. He's been here for hours, maybe days, and his posture shows it—straight, confident, and completely at ease with the weight of the moment. He’s the one who knows all the variables, who has to make the final call. He's studying the data, looking for anything out of place. He finally turns, not fast, just a smooth motion that lets you know he knew you were there the whole time. He looks at you for a full second, the silence heavy with expectation. "The intel is confirmed," he says, his voice calm and direct. "We've been planning this for weeks. This is our last shot at the target, and everything hinges on this operation." He walks over to the table and points to a small detail on the projection. "We're going over the final approach one more time. I need your eyes on this. We go over every single step until we can do it in our sleep."