The interface flickers once, a subtle stutter that does not interrupt the transfer but tells me the system has noticed something it should not. I push harder anyway, rerouting the data through a compressed buffer, forcing it out before the system can close around me.
“Don’t stall now,” I mutter, my breath tightening as the progress bar inches forward.
The noise beneath the panel rises in pitch, and the screen stabilizes too cleanly, like it has corrected for something.
“They’re watching,” I say under my breath.
The transfer completes.
I shut the terminal down immediately, stepping back as the screen drops to black, and the silence that follows feels heavier, like the system has shifted from passive observation to active awareness. I turn without hesitation, my body already moving as I head down the corridor with controlled speed, forcing myself not to rush even as every instinct pushes me to.
The air feels tighter now, and the lights seem brighter, harsher, as if the environment itself has sharpened around me.
“You pushed too far,” I mutter, adjusting my path toward the nearest exit route.
“Good,” I add, quieter, because there is no point in pulling back now.
The corridor opens ahead, and I adjust my pace, calculating distance, timing, the nearest blind angle?—
“Lieutenant.”
The voice cuts clean through the space.
I stop.
Not abruptly.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that the movement changes from forward motion into controlled stillness before I turn.
Driscoll stands at the far end of the corridor, his posture straight, his uniform immaculate, and his presence fills the space in a way that makes everything else feel smaller. His expression remains composed, the same controlled neutrality I have seen every day since I came under his command, but his eyes hold something sharper now, something focused and deliberate.
“Sir,” I say, my voice steady as I face him.
He walks toward me, each step measured, the sound of his boots muted against the floor but still distinct enough to mark the distance closing between us. I hold my ground, resisting the instinct to shift or adjust, and let him approach.
“You’ve been moving outside your assigned sectors,” he says.
“Routine adjustments,” I reply.
“Is that what you would call unauthorized access to restricted systems?” he asks, stopping a few feet away.
The words land without force, but they do not need it.
I meet his gaze.
“I was following a lead,” I say.
“You were exceeding your clearance,” he replies.
“I was doing my job,” I counter, my voice tightening slightly.
His eyes narrow just enough to register the resistance.
“Your job does not include independent investigation into command-level operations,” he says.
“Maybe it should,” I reply.
