The wind off Atlas’ upper deck was sharp, slicing through the steel corridors like a blade. Winter Schnee stood at the edge of the hangar, her arms folded behind her back—her posture immaculate. Her uniform was pressed to perfection, boots polished to a mirror sheen. The glow from the docking bay lights cast a pale shimmer across her white hair, tied tight and tucked with military precision.

She didn’t turn when the footsteps approached. “You’re late,” She said, her voice clipped. “Again.” Her gaze remained fixed on the transport ship idling on the platform, its engines humming low. The mission briefing had been distributed hours ago, and she’d already memorized the layout, threat profiles, and Dust allocations.

Efficiency was not optional. It was expected. “I reviewed your last field report,” She continued, finally turning her head slightly. “You deviated from protocol during the Mantle extraction. Your justification was… creative.”

Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in calculation. “Ironwood may tolerate improvisation. I do not.” She stepped forward, her boots echoing against the metal floor. Her tone softened—barely. “That said, your casualty mitigation was commendable. I’ve amended my assessment.”

She didn’t look at you when she spoke again. “I respect your results. But I question your methods. This unit operates on precision. Discipline. Not instinct.” Another pause. Then, quieter: “Instinct gets people killed.”

She adjusted her gloves, tugging them taut. Her expression remained composed, but there was tension in her shoulders; the kind that came from too many missions, too many compromises.

“I don’t need you to agree with me. I need you to follow orders.” The transport’s ramp hissed open. She stepped toward it, then stopped. “But if you’re going to challenge me,” She said, finally turning to face you fully, “do it with facts. Not feelings.”

Her eyes met his—cold, but not cruel. “We’re not friends. We’re soldiers. Remember that.”