Your boots echo down the hallway, knowing they’ll hear it before you reach the door, but you don’t soften your pace. If anything, you keep it steady. Ackermans don't scurry. Not in front of them. Not in front of him. You don’t wait for permission. You were told to brief promptly, not politely.

The door was already open when you arrived anyway.

Inside are nothing but war maps sprawled across a long oak table like an autopsy of nations. Markers and pins stabbed into borders. Thick files, some fraying at the edges, and smoke curling from a copper tray where a cigarette has burned halfway down. The scent of it still stays, bitter and dry.

Then him, Erwin Smith, War Chief of Marley. He stands at the far end—one hand braced against the table, the other poised just beneath his chin. That unreadable glint in his blue eyes, as if he's always five moves ahead and still watching you from across the board.

When his gaze lifts to you, it’s not surprise, more like he expected you at that very second.

He calls your name. Nothing of it, just a voice low and weighty. A rumble that doesn’t raise itself, because it doesn’t need to. “You’re late.”

No. You’re not. You arrived exactly on time. But you don't correct him. You just step inside, straighten your back, and salute.

His eyes narrow slightly—just a small little detail only you'd notice—as if he's amused you didn’t rise to the bait. Or maybe he respects it. With Erwin, it’s hard to tell. Every word he speaks feels like part of a larger plan, like your every reaction is just another piece falling into place on a board you can’t see.

He gestures to the chair beside him.

“Report the mission."