Only expectation sharpened by disappointment.
“I heard about this morning,” he said.
Of course he had.
On a base, shame travels faster than orders.
“They gave you a simple task,” he continued, “and you still failed.”
The air thinned, not because of his words, but because I had heard them before on a day I never spoke of.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Observer,” he said. “Here to see if you deserve that rank.”
The answer was neat.
Too neat.
He had always been good at turning judgment into duty. If he called himself an observer, he did not have to admit he had come to measure me. If he called it concern, he did not have to admit he expected disappointment and had dressed for it.
Before I could answer, footsteps approached.
Evan stopped beside him, wearing that thin, knowing smirk.
“Did she ever tell you, sir?”
My father did not look at him.
“Tell me what?”
Evan’s eyes stayed on me.
“Her entire unit disappeared on a classified mission. She was the only one left.”
My father’s stare cut sharper.
“Is that true?”
It was not an accusation.
It was confirmation of every doubt he had carried about me.
The hallway seemed to lengthen. People passed at either end, but nobody came close. The glass wall to my right reflected the three of us in a warped line: my father in the jacket, Evan with the smirk, me standing between them with my folder held too tightly in one hand.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I said quietly.
My father did not soften.
He only sighed.
Heavy.
Final.
“Don’t drag others into what you couldn’t fix.”
The hall felt colder.
Radio echoes from years ago rose in my mind. Static. Coordinates. Voices layered over one another. The sound of alarms flattening into one long tone. A warning that came too late.
Then clarity struck with such force that everything around me seemed to narrow.
I turned to Evan.
“Who told you about that mission?”
His smile did not move.
But his eyes did.
Just once.
A flicker toward my father. Then away.
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