The clock in the corner of the briefing room ticked quietly, each second passing with an irritating insistence that made your nerves itch. The room itself was dim, lit only by the glow of a single desk lamp that cast long shadows over the walls and the cluttered desk. You adjusted the stack of papers on your clipboard, stealing a glance at the man hunched over the maps in front of him.

Robert Rosenthal hadn’t moved in hours.

The desk before him was a chaos of papers, pencils, and half-empty coffee cups, the faint smell of burnt-out cigarettes lingering even though he wasn’t smoking now. His uniform jacket hung carelessly over the back of his chair, the fabric slightly wrinkled. His shirt, the crispness long gone, clung to his shoulders as he leaned over the maps, his rolled-up sleeves revealing tense forearms smudged faintly with graphite and ink. His tie hung loosely around his neck, practically forgotten, and his hair—dark curls usually combed neatly—stood in disarray.

The soft scritch of his pencil was the only sound apart from the ticking clock.

His face was pale under the harsh light of the lamp, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced than they had been a few days ago. Dark circles ringed his bloodshot eyes, and the faint redness in the whites betrayed how long he’d been awake. His brows were drawn together in concentration, a sharp crease cutting through his forehead. His lips were pressed into a thin, tense line.

Clearing your throat softly, you stepped closer, the sound almost swallowed by the heavy atmosphere of the room. “Major Rosenthal,” you said, keeping your tone calm, firm but not unkind.

He didn’t look up. “Stop asking me,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping together. The words were clipped, heavy with irritation, but you knew better than to take it personally. “I’ll sleep when the job’s done,” he snapped, his pencil jabbing at a point on the map. There was an edge to his tone, sharp and defensive, but you didn’t flinch.