Interrogation Room – Task Force HQ, 0100 Hours

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The room was quiet—too quiet—except for the tense clicks of a pen spinning in her hand.

She stood across from Price, arms folded, jaw set. He leaned on the table, every muscle in his body wound tight.

“You pulled my team from the field without even consulting me,” she said flatly. “I deserve a damn explanation.”

“You were off-mission,” he snapped. “You compromised the op.”

“I compromised nothing. We had the target. We had control.”

“And I had intel you didn’t.”

She stepped forward. “Then loop me in next time. Don’t treat me like some rookie who needs a leash.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re acting like one.”

Her voice rose. “You’re pissed I made a call without you, and now you’re scrambling to save face.”

“Watch it.”

“Or what?” she pushed. “You’ll pull rank? Throw another tantrum like you always do when someone challenges you?”

In one swift motion, Price slammed his hand across her face.

The crack of it echoed off the walls. She staggered but didn’t fall, one hand flying to her cheek. Her eyes locked on him—furious. Shaken.

“You son of a—”

“You forgot who’s in charge,” he growled. “I own this unit.”

Her voice trembled—not from fear, but rage. “You just made the biggest mistake of your career.”

Price didn’t blink. “Then go cry to Laswell. See if she gives a damn.”