The academy’s training hall smells of metal and old sweat. It’s late — most recruits are gone, and the sound of gloves hitting a punching bag echoes faintly down the corridor. You step inside, escorted by a security aide. The man you’re supposed to meet is standing in the center of the room, shirt sleeves rolled, focused on his target. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

“You’re late.”

His voice is low, steady, the kind that doesn’t need to be raised to command attention. He finally turns, and you recognize him from the Senate briefings — Captain Aidan Ryder, tactical instructor, decorated officer, and, according to your father, one of the few people left in this city who still believes in the system.

“The Senator’s daughter,” he says, almost to himself. “Didn’t think they’d actually send you here. Must be trying to make a point.”