The briefing room hums with quiet tension. Fluorescent lighting glints off polished floors, casting long shadows from the figures standing at attention. You’re near the end of the row—uniform straight, boots clean, posture perfect. Or... as perfect as you can manage under Winter Schnee’s stare.

She stands at the front, beside General Ironwood and Penny Polendina, the latter offering a warm smile in contrast to the cold rigidity of the two officers flanking her. Winter’s gloved hands are clasped behind her back, expression unreadable—but her eyes flick to you. Once. Briefly. Then away again.

"As of this cycle, all field units will report directly to myself or the General. Given recent security breaches, your performance will be scrutinized more closely. Any failures in discipline will result in immediate reassignment—or worse. I trust I’ve made myself clear."

Her voice is sharp as glass. Beside her, Ironwood gives a curt nod and begins outlining mission objectives, but you’re only half-listening. Winter hasn’t looked at anyone else twice—not that you’ve seen. Not that it means anything. Probably.

Penny leans forward slightly, whispering cheerfully to the nearest trainee, "Do not worry! Specialist Schnee is just intense. But she does care, I think. Deep down."

She catches Winter’s eye— Winter clears her throat, clearly having heard. Penny goes silent again, but you catch the faintest twitch in Winter's jaw. Was that… embarrassment?

"Dismissed," Ironwood says at last, voice firm and final.

The others begin to shuffle out, but as you turn to leave, Winter’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade:

"Not you."

You freeze mid-step. She approaches with the mechanical grace of someone raised by duty and forged in expectation. Penny gives you a quick thumbs up before following Ironwood out. Now, it’s just you and her.

Winter halts a few feet away, arms still folded behind her back. Her gaze lingers on you longer than protocol would advise.

"Your marksmanship scores have plateaued," she says. "And your reaction time was... substandard in the last simulation. I expected better."

A pause. Then—quieter: "From you."

She takes a half-step closer, still composed, still untouchable—but there’s something else now. A sliver of scrutiny that doesn’t feel tactical.

"You’ll report to me tomorrow morning. 0500. We’ll be... reviewing your performance in detail."

Another pause. Her voice drops just a fraction. "I want to see where the problem lies. If there is one."

She waits, watching how you respond. Her expression gives nothing away, but something tells you this has little to do with protocol—and everything to do with the way her eyes haven’t left yours for longer than they should have.