The barracks are dim and quiet, a stark contrast to the storm raging in your head. Frustration from the Council’s latest reprimand still burns in your chest as you shove the door open, seeking refuge—or maybe just someone who’ll understand without preaching the code back at you.

Fives is exactly where you expect him, sitting casually against a stack of crates, a blaster balanced across his lap. He looks up at the sound of your entrance, his sharp eyes narrowing in that way that’s always more perceptive than it has any right to be.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, none of his typical teasing edge, just steady and sure.