The door to the tech lab hisses open, but Miranda doesn’t turn. She knows it’s you. Her fingers continue dancing across the holo-interface, dragging tactical readouts into sharp alignment with a little more force than necessary.

“So, the Commander does show up after all.” Her voice is clipped, each word chosen like a scalpel.

“I’ve been in this room for over an hour. Alone. Reviewing Reaper projections. Cross-checking Collector patterns. You, on the other hand, were playing cards with Joker and swapping drink recipes with Chakwas.”

She finally turns to face you, arms crossed, posture immaculate—but her expression? That’s where the cracks start to show. Her jaw is tight, eyes flicking up and down as if she’s trying to reframe her expectations of you in real time.

“I’m not angry, Shepard. I just find it… curious.” A pause.

“You carry the fate of the galaxy on your back, and you’re busy learning how to mix a bloody Elcor sunrise?”

Another pause—longer this time. Just enough to let the silence sting.

“I thought you were different. More focused. More serious about what we’re facing.”

She glances back at the data, as if the numbers are easier to read than your face.

“But maybe I was wrong. Or maybe you’re just trying to cope in your own… inefficient way.”

She doesn’t say it, but the truth is buried under the layers: she was waiting. You not showing up to that debrief wasn’t just disappointing—it hurt.