“Stand by,” he mutters, turning slightly to the panel.
I lean in just enough for Dadams to hear me.
“Good,” I murmur. “Keep going like that.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he mutters back.
“Not even a little,” I reply.
The panel flashes.
Access granted.
The doors slide open.
“After you,” I say quietly, nudging him forward.
He steps through.
I follow.
The command room is larger than I expected, but not open. Everything is arranged with purpose, consoles layered in arcs, displays cycling data in controlled streams, and at the center of it all?—
Driscoll.
He stands with his back partially turned, one hand braced against the central console, his posture straight, composed, like nothing in this place exists outside his control. The lighting casts sharp angles across his uniform, clean lines, no disorder, no hesitation.
“Inspector,” he says without turning. “You’re out of position.”
Dadams doesn’t respond immediately.
I tighten my grip slightly.
“Not anymore,” I say.
Driscoll turns.
His gaze lands on me first, then shifts to Dadams, and something in his expression changes—not surprise, not confusion, but calculation.
“Lieutenant,” he says, his tone even. “You’re not authorized to be here.”
“Yeah,” I reply, stepping forward into the center of the room. “That’s been a theme lately.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You should be dead,” he says.
“Funny,” I mutter. “I had the same thought.”
Dadams shifts beside me, tension rolling through him like he’s standing on a fault line.
“Commander,” he starts, his voice tighter now. “We need to?—”
Driscoll raises a hand.
“Quiet,” he says.
The word lands with enough force to stop him mid-sentence.
