“So is standing still,” I answer.
The room doesn’t relax after that, but the tension shifts into something more contained, more deliberate, like they’re processing instead of reacting.
“She’s not here,” someone says, cutting across the moment.
“She doesn’t need to be,” I reply.
“If she’s this involved, she should be,” he says.
“No,” I say. “She shouldn’t.”
That draws sharper attention than anything else, the shift immediate and focused.
“You don’t want her taking heat,” someone mutters.
“I don’t want her distracting from the function,” I reply.
“That’s not how this reads,” he says.
“I don’t care how it reads,” I repeat.
Vihl shifts beside me slightly, his attention tightening.
“You’re protecting her,” he says.
“I’m positioning her,” I correct.
“That’s not the same thing,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
The projection shifts again under my command, pulling the room’s focus back toward structure as new data layers into place, the glow of it reflecting across the surfaces around us.
“Next operation,” I say.
The display resolves into a tighter configuration, the layout sharper, built for precision instead of overwhelming force.
“She handles approach,” I say.
“She’s not even here,” someone snaps.
“She doesn’t need to be,” I reply.
“That’s not how command works,” he says.
“It is when command adapts,” I answer.
“And when it fails,” he pushes.
I hold his gaze steadily, letting the silence carry the weight of the answer before I give it.
“It won’t,” I say.
“You sound sure,” he says.
“I am,” I reply.
The argument doesn’t disappear, but it stops advancing, and that’s enough to move the room forward.
