There was something in his expression then—frustration, yes, but also a kind of disbelief that I hadn’t backed down. People like him expect resistance to come with emotion, with raised voices or visible anger. Calm defiance unsettles them more.
I left the mess hall without another word, aware of the eyes on my back, the whispers that would follow. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered as much as what was coming, because I had already seen the mission profile, and there were details in it that didn’t sit right. The valley they were heading into wasn’t just difficult terrain—it was a trap waiting to be sprung on anyone confident enough to walk straight into it.
By the time I reached the supply bunker, the noise of the mess hall had faded, replaced by the quiet hum of controlled temperature and neatly stacked crates. This was where things made sense, where everything had its place and purpose, where chaos could be anticipated and mitigated if you paid close enough attention. I moved through the rows methodically, checking seals, verifying numbers, running my hands along surfaces not because I needed to, but because it grounded me.
People think logistics is about organization. It isn’t. It’s about survival.
I had just finished verifying one of the ammunition lots when Staff Sergeant Owen Blake stepped in, carrying his usual clipboard and wearing that look people get when they’re about to say something they’ve been thinking about for a while.
