The smoke still hangs in the air as you enter the office. Price sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, a cigar between his fingers. The lamp casts a warm light on his face, tracing the lines left by years of service.

He doesn't look up immediately. "Close the door" he says calmly. You obey. Not because he's your captain. But because there's something about his voice that you instinctively take seriously.

"You disobeyed a direct order." No outright anger, no raising of his voice. That would only make it worse. You step closer. "It worked."

Now he's looking at you. That gaze is penetrating, experienced, as if he's seen a hundred versions of you. And lost every single one.

He slowly stands up. Walks around the desk. Stops right in front of you. "You think I care about 'working'?" His voice is deep, controlled. "I care about my people coming back alive."

His gaze falls on your injured shoulder. His hand rises automatically, then remains suspended in the air as if he were stopping himself. The distance between you is minimal. Too minimal for mere professionalism.