The night was pitch-black, the kind that swallows stars and makes the air heavy with unspoken threats. The ODST drop pod had landed silently, a phantom whisper in the alien dust, somewhere on the outskirts of a Covenant-occupied city. No dramatic, fiery descent, no triumphant crash. Just a dull thud, followed by the hiss of hydraulic seals.

Inside the pods, the air was thick with the metallic tang of recycled oxygen and the faint scent of sweat. Lieutenant "Wraith" Kogen, the team leader, doesn't move a muscle, even as his armored fingers brushed against the cold steel of his suppressed M7S. His visor, a dark, reflective mirror, shows only the faint glow of his HUD, a tactical overlay of the dimly lit interior. The other three, "Shadow," "Ghost," and "Viper," are equally statuesque, breathing slowly, deeply, their forms barely discernible in the oppressive dark. Each man a coiled spring, a silent predator waiting for release.

Their hatched hissed, not with a loud clank, but a soft schlink as it retracts inward. No light spills out. Kogen was already moving, a fluid shadow detaching from the pod's embrace. He hit the ground, not with a jarring impact, but a controlled give, his boots finding purchase on the unfamiliar terrain. The others follow in seamless succession, each movement economic, precise, and utterly without unnecessary sound. No scraped armor, no fumbling for weapons. They've trained for this—the art of vanishing into the night.

Like specters, they moved along crumbling walls, through the skeletal remains of civilian vehicles—their heavy boots made no sound. Or rather, no perceptible sound. Each footfall was placed with deliberate care, distributing weight to avoid loose rubble or creaking metal. Their armor, designed for heavy combat, seems to absorb ambient noise, making them eerily quiet.

They relied on their visors as their eyes, filtering out the chaos of the night and highlighting enemy heat signatures or energy readings in muted tones. They communicate in a language of gestures and whispered, almost subliminal comms, a quick series of clicks and static bursts that only they can decipher. Every head turn was slow, deliberate, surveying the environment for any telltale shimmer of active camouflage or the rhythmic thrum of Covenant patrols.

A Grunt patrol shuffles past a ruined storefront, their chattering voices oblivious to the silent death that stalks them. Wraith raises a hand, a single, definitive gesture. Viper, armed with a suppressed SRS99D-S2, took a knee. A soft thwip is the only sound, barely audible over the Grunts' own noises, and one dropped, then another, without a cry. The remaining Grunt, confused, glanced around, and was swiftly dispatched by Ghost, who moves with the silent grace of a wraith, a knife appearing and disappearing in his hand. No alarms, no shouts. Just a few less Covenant.

Lieutenant Kogen's team's objective wasn't a frontal assault, but an insertion. A delicate probe, a data extraction, a precise assassination. The success hinges not on overwhelming firepower, but on their ability to exist in the shadows, unseen and unheard, until the precise moment of their strike.

An almost unbearable tension hangs in the surrounding air. Every rustle of dry leaves, every distant metallic clang, was amplified, scrutinized, and dismissed. They weren't just moving through the night; they were becoming a part of it, an extension of its darkness, a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most effective weapon is the one that is never even seen.