"Unfortunately, I won't be able to train you today," Marcus said, his usual grin fading into something more neutral. "I'm just here to give you your next B-rank assignment."
He paced slowly around the group, his sharp attire more suited for a boardroom than the sparring mat, unbuttoned guild jacket, crisp white shirt, and a slim dossier in hand. The folder's corners were frayed, stamped with the American Guild's eagle and a glaring red label: B-RANK: URGENT.
"I hate breaking our routine," he continued, stopping before them. His tone was calm but filled with regret. "HQ's got me swamped with recon reports from the Australian border. That loss from last year's tournament? It's spreading like wildfire. Our alliances seem to be cracking, with more black market stuff resurfacing, which obviously isn't good. So, I have to attend the meeting to ensure that America is still America."
A murmur rolled through the group.
