G.I. Joe gathers his team around a dimly lit table, the weight of history pressing down on their shoulders. He holds up a well-worn Bible, flipping to Psalm 64, his fingers tracing the ancient words.

“They shoot at the innocent from ambush,
shoot without risk, catch them unawares.”

He lets the words hang in the air. The room is silent, save for the faint hum of a fluorescent light.

“November 22, 1963,” Joe says, tapping his knuckle on the table. “They took down a sitting president in broad daylight. A king in Camelot, executed for the world to see. And a year later, in 1964, they hand the people a fairytale—the Warren Commission Report—selling us the ‘magic bullet’ theory like we’re children too stupid to see the con.”

Lady Jaye crosses her arms, her face hardened. “And Psalm 64? You think they follow it like a script?”

Joe nods. “They love rubbing our noses in it. These secret societies, the illuminated ones, they think the masses are beneath them. Profane. Unworthy of the ‘hidden wisdom.’ But they slip up. They leave fingerprints. The year ’64, the Psalm—it’s right in our face, like a sick inside joke.”

Flint clenches his fists. “JFK was trying to take power away from them—shutting down the Fed, warning about secret societies. He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t their puppet. And for that, they silenced him.”

Joe exhales, flipping the Bible shut. “They shoot from the shadows. Always have. But every shadow disappears when you shine the right light. That’s why we’re here.”

A heavy pause. Then, Snake Eyes taps the table twice. A silent agreement.

The war against the unseen would rage on.