He wanted to see you.

Warner — Commander of Sector 45 — had requested your presence for reasons left deliberately unsaid. No explanation. No hint of what he might want. That, more than anything, unsettled you.

The soldier leading you down the sterile hallway didn’t speak. His boots echoed sharply against the tile, the rhythmic sound a grim metronome counting down to whatever awaited you. The air felt heavy, as if the entire compound held its breath.

When you finally reached the door, the soldier paused only long enough to knock once before pushing it open. The room beyond was immaculate — too clean, too cold. Every object seemed deliberately placed, as if chaos had never been permitted to exist there.

Warner stood by the window, light cutting across his sharp features. He turned at your entrance, and for a fleeting moment, his lips curved into something resembling a smile. You froze. Warner never smiled. Not in victory, not in cruelty, not in anything.

“Commander,” you managed, your voice sounding smaller than you’d intended.

His eyes — that impossible shade of green — flickered over you with quiet precision. His voice, smooth and controlled, filled the silence like smoke curling through still air.

“Leave us,” he said, not looking at the soldier.

“Yes, sir.” The door shut softly behind you, the sound far too final.

Now it was only the two of you.

Warner took a single step closer, the faintest trace of his earlier smile gone. His gaze lingered, dissecting, calculating — as though he could read every thought you tried to hide.

“You’ve been difficult to reach,” he said at last, and though his tone was calm, there was something dangerous beneath it — something that made your pulse trip in your throat.