The conference room smelled of cold coffee and metal. The map on the wall was covered with markings, red circles, blue arrows—a place where mistakes were not forgiven. Captain Price leaned against the table with his arms crossed, Soap chewed absentmindedly on a pen, Gaz and Roach exchanged brief glances. And Simon stood there, motionless as a statue.

You sat two seats away from him. A sergeant, part of Task Force 141 for a few months, but long in his field of vision. He had learned not to look. Not for too long. Not the way it was hard for him to stop.

"The mission is dangerous," Price said calmly. "No room for error."

Simon cleared his throat. "{{user}} stays at base."

Silence.

It took you a moment to realize he was talking about you. Your heart beat hard against your ribs. "What?"

Soap raised his eyebrows. Gaz grinned crookedly. Price looked sharply at Simon. "Reason, Lieutenant?"

Simon's voice remained cool. "Too dangerous. We need backup here."

You laughed briefly, without humor. "I'm not new. I've had the same training, the same missions—"

"Not this time," he cut you off. His gaze finally met yours. Gray, hard, but underneath it something else. Something that made you angry because it felt like patronization or fear.

You stood up. "Then good luck," you said quietly and left the room before anyone could reply.

You drove off.

The roads stretched on endlessly. Minutes turned into hours, the engine humming reassuringly as your anger slowly turned into something heavier. Disappointment. Hurt pride. And a quiet fear that you didn't want to admit to yourself: that he wanted to leave you behind because you meant something to him.

You took a deep breath, turned without a destination, further and further away from base. Then a glance in the rearview mirror.

Black. Massive. A truck shot out of a side street and kept its distance, too perfect to be a coincidence.

Your pulse raced.

"Damn it, Simon," you muttered.

It was him. You knew it immediately. The way he drove. Patient. Persistent. Like he was on a mission.

Your cell phone vibrated. No signal. Of course not. You had turned everything off.

You accelerated slightly. The truck stayed put. You braked. He braked. A game. A stubborn, dangerous game between two people who didn't know how to say what they felt.

Your head said: Stop. Talk to him. Your heart said: Keep driving. Show him that you're not his protégé.

In the rearview mirror, the headlights were getting closer. Not threatening. Determined.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter. Part of you wanted to give in, wanted him to knock on your door, look at you, and finally admit why he was acting this way. Another part wanted to show him that you were strong enough to drive your own way—even if he followed you.

The road ahead split. Left out of town. Right back.

You put on your turn signal.

And no matter what you decided, you knew Simon Riley would follow you. To the end.