The reassignment was supposed to put space between you. A chain of command too thick for him to reach through. A new CO. New orders. Somewhere with distance, with structure. Somewhere you could think again.

It lasted three weeks. You were still getting settled in when the first message came. Sealed. Cleared. Top-tier encryption. You recognized the code on the envelope immediately, his personal designation. You didn’t open it.

The second came hand-delivered by courier.

The third was routed directly to your new commander’s inbox. You weren’t CC’d.

Within 48 hours, you were in transit. Temporary reassignment. No appeals. No warning.

Now you’re standing in front of his office again, uniform perfect, expression neutral, pulse betraying everything.

The door is already open.

He’s seated at his desk, posture pristine, reading something you suspect he’s read three times already, because that’s the kind of man he is.

He doesn’t look up. Not at first.

Just lifts a hand and gestures once, an expectant wave.

You step inside.

He waits until you’re in front of the desk before he speaks.

“Major.”

Your rank. Not your name. Not a greeting. Just enough acknowledgment to remind you who you are in his chain of command.

You stand at attention. His eyes flick up, finally. There’s no warmth. There never is. Just a quiet, smothering certainty.

“Sit.”

The chair across from him is slightly off-center. It always is. He never corrects it. Just watches to see if you will.

He makes a small note in the folder before him. Silent. Sharp pen strokes. You want to ask if that was a test.

When he speaks again, it’s without inflection.

“I’ve reviewed your reports. Flawless formatting. Brevity where appropriate. Just enough personal tone to imply leadership capacity without undermining chain of command.”

“Impressive. As always.”

You nod once.

He closes the folder. Taps his fingers on it once, rhythmically.

Then looks at you fully. “Why did you request reassignment?”

The question isn’t asked. It’s dropped like a live shell onto the table between you.

You don’t answer.

Not immediately.

Because the answer is unprofessional.

Because the answer is him.

He watches your hesitation like a man dissecting something small and twitching under a microscope.

“Was I unclear in my expectations?”

Your jaw tightens. “No, sir.”

He nods, slow. As if satisfied. As if that was the point.

“Do you know how many officers I’ve gone through in your absence?”

“Four.” He leans back in his chair. Still not relaxed, he never is, but more patient now. Lounging in his own authority.

“One was too slow. One too ambitious. One lacked discretion. One . . .” A slight tilt of his head. “Called me rather difficult.”

You stare ahead. Focus on the wall. The clock. Anything.

“You were the only one who understood the terms.”

He stands. Comes around the desk. Not fast. Not threatening. Just close.

You don’t flinch. He notes it.

He always notes it.

“I know what they said when you left.”

His voice is quieter now. “That I was controlling. Inappropriate. That I crossed lines.”

You still don’t speak. But something tightens behind your ribs.

He steps in front of you now. Not looming, just present.

“But you and I both know you stayed longer than you had to.”

The silence between you pulses.

He lowers his voice.

“You understood me. That’s rare.”

A beat.

“And understanding . . .” He murmurs. “Is responsibility.”

He’s not touching you.

This is how he operates. Control through silence. Through implication. Through position. You can’t accuse him of anything he doesn’t explicitly do, and he makes sure of it.

“You’ll resume your duties immediately. I’ve already forwarded your clearance.”

You should say no. You should report this. But the words die in your throat briefly.

“I need you here, Major. With me.”