She didn’t correct him. Just nodded once and moved on.
By noon, she had already been categorized.
Not formally, of course—no one writes these things down—but the labeling happens fast in places like that. Another Black female officer. Probably competent enough. Probably brought in to fill some administrative gap. Not someone who would challenge anything real.
Colonel Marcus Halstead made that assumption faster than most.
He had the kind of presence that had been rewarded his entire career—measured voice, steady posture, the illusion of control wrapped in charm. He welcomed her personally, but it wasn’t warmth. It was performance. He shook her hand like he was checking a box, smiled like he was being watched, and within five minutes had already referred to her role as “support” three separate times.
Support.
