For years, The player had been the ultimate Project IGI veteran. He knew every enemy location, every sneaky backdoor route, and every rooftop jump to avoid alarms. His muscle memory was so sharp that he could complete a mission without breaking a sweat, one hand on the keyboard, the other holding a cup of tea.

Back in the day, he would speed-run the game with unmatched precision. Guards were predictable, alarms were easily avoided, and the game was a playground of tactical mastery. If he had a dollar for every time he heard “Hey, you! Stop there!” in a poorly acted Russian accent, he’d be rich.

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