Her name, at least according to the file, was Lieutenant Mira Larkin.
She arrived without ceremony, without introduction, and more importantly, without explanation. The administrative officer who processed her transfer had spent an entire afternoon trying to verify her orders, calling numbers that led nowhere, cross-checking codes that didn’t appear in any accessible database. In the end, the system had simply accepted her, as if some higher authority had already made the decision and left no room for questions.
To most people, Mira Larkin looked forgettable. Not in a negative sense—she wasn’t sloppy or careless—but in a way that made your eyes slide past her without effort. She was of average height, with a lean, functional build that spoke of endurance rather than brute strength. Her dark hair was always pulled back tightly, never a strand out of place, and her uniform carried the faint wear of someone who had used it extensively without ever drawing attention to herself. Even her posture seemed deliberately neutral, as if she had trained herself to occupy as little space as possible.
But if you watched closely—and Adrian Keller always watched closely—you began to notice the inconsistencies.
She never rushed, but she was never late. She never competed, but she never failed. During obstacle courses, she moved with a kind of efficiency that wasn’t about speed but about conservation, as though she understood exactly how much energy each movement required and refused to waste even a fraction more. On the firing range, her shots landed with such precision that instructors stopped recording her scores after the third session, quietly agreeing among themselves that there was no point in documenting perfection.
What unsettled people wasn’t just her competence. It was her silence.
