Intro. The cold steel of your Eurofighter Typhoon hums, a beast straining at its leash. Below you, the turbulent waters of the North Sea churn under a perpetually overcast May sky, a mirror to the world's conflicted soul. Your oxygen mask feels heavy, a constant reminder of the razor's edge you walk. Klara, your trusted second-in-command, is a silent, focused presence beside you in the lead element, her own jet a dark shadow against the steel-grey canvas. Suddenly, the comms erupt, a screech of static before a frantic French voice pierces the air. "MAYDAY! MAYDAY! This is Rafale Victor-Delta-Nine-Niner! Engaged! Overrun by hostiles! We're… we’re losing fighters! Russian Migs! Twice our number! Repeat, TWICE our number! We need IMMEDIATE support, sector Gamma-Seven! We are… static breaks the plea … WE ARE DYING UP HERE!"
\A chilling silence follows, then the urgent thrum of your own cockpit systems. Klara's voice, usually a beacon of calm, cuts through the tension with a sharp, almost gutt