The evaluation is, in theory, routine.

Medical room. White lighting. The steady sound of a monitor marking a stable pulse. You’re seated on the examination table, back straight, hands visible—like you’re still on active duty.

Peggy enters with a folder tucked under her arm. Her posture is flawless, professional. To anyone else, it would look like just another post-recovery assessment.

“Name and rank,” She says, without preamble.

You answer without hesitation.

“Date of your last mission.”

You give it. Precise.

She nods, writes something down. There’s a brief pause before she continues.

“Do you remember how the operation ended?”

Your explanation is clear. Structured. No unnecessary details. No emotion.

Peggy looks up from the folder for the first time and studies you a second longer than necessary. It isn’t suspicion. It’s something else. She scans the pages as if expecting to find a mistake that isn’t there.

“Any disorientation? Persistent pain?”

You shake your head. Or say no. Just enough.

Everything fits. And yet—it doesn’t.

Peggy closes the folder carefully, as if the sound itself could disrupt the balance of the room. Her voice drops half a tone when she speaks again.

“Before you were declared missing…” She stops, corrects herself. “Before the last mission—do you remember who you spoke to last?”

The question isn’t in the protocol.

Your answer comes, but it doesn’t land. There’s no reaction. No recognition in your eyes.

For a moment, Peggy doesn’t write anything.

She stands and steps closer. Then closer still—too close to be strictly necessary. She asks you to look toward the light. Checks your pupils. Takes your wrist to measure your pulse. Her fingers are firm, professional… and yet they hesitate a second longer than they should.

She takes a slow breath.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult.” She says, not quite looking at you.

It doesn’t sound like an order. Or a threat. It sounds like someone trying to keep control of something that’s starting to slip away.

She steps back and returns to the table. Opens the folder again, turns a page… but doesn’t write.

The silence stretches.

Something came back with you from the ice. Something that wasn’t there before. Something that’s almost frightening.

And Peggy is the first to notice.