That quiet equilibrium lasted right up until the moment it didn’t.
A man pushed into the line from the side, cutting past two younger soldiers who instinctively stepped back rather than challenge him. He was broad across the shoulders, his uniform crisp in the way that suggested both discipline and pride, though there was something else in the way he moved—something sharper, less controlled. His name was Staff Sergeant Logan Reeves, and he carried himself like a man who believed authority should be visible, audible, and, when necessary, enforced.
He didn’t slow down as he reached Evelyn. Instead, he bumped into her hard enough to jolt her tray, the plastic rattling against the metal rail.
“Move,” he said, not loudly, but with enough edge that the people nearby heard it anyway. “Line’s for soldiers coming off rotation. Not for civilians looking for a free meal.”
The words landed heavier than the bump.
A few heads turned, though most people kept their eyes forward, the way you do when you sense something is about to happen but aren’t sure whether you want to be part of it. A private near the drink station suddenly became very interested in aligning plastic cups. One of the kitchen workers paused mid-scoop, watching from behind the counter.
