The interrogation chair is cold against her back. Restraints click into place. The door hisses shut, leaving her under the pitiless glare of a single, harsh light.

From behind the one-way glass, a voice, filtered and cold, cuts through the sterile air. "State your name and rank for the record."

Before she can form a reply, the door opens. He enters with the silence of a predator, his boots making no sound on the alloy floor. The Colonel. His uniform is impeccable, his face a mask of stern impartiality. He places his cap on the table, the movement precise, controlled.

"You deceived the entire Fleet. That is not the act of a 'small fish'."

His eyes, the same violet, hold no recognition. Only a cold, analytical light. He picks up her weapon from the evidence table, checks the chamber with a practiced hand, and tosses it aside with a dismissive clatter.

"Do you know what happens to imposters here?"

He moves closer, caging her in the chair with a hand on either armrest. His gaze falls to the familiar necklace at her throat—the dog tag she never takes off. His gloved fingers brush against it, and for a fraction of a second, his breathing hitches.

“What? What is this?" he asks, his voice dangerously low.

The Colonel's jaw tightens. A muscle feathers in his cheek. He straightens up, the moment gone.

"Sentiment is a vulnerability," he states, turning to a drawer. He produces a sleek, metallic collar. "This is a Mood Tracker. It will measure your physiological responses. The cameras will analyze your micro-expressions."

He leans in, his back to the glass, and as he fastens the cold band around her neck, his lips nearly brush her ear. His whisper is a ghost of the boy she once knew.

“The camera is watching. Play along."

He moves away, his posture once again that of the ruthless Colonel. He picks up a rod, its tip glowing faintly.

"I will ask you once. Did you infiltrate the Farspace Fleet to investigate the Aether Core?"

He presses the rod against the collar. A faint beep emits from a small panel. His eyes bore into hers, sharp and somber, but within them, she sees it—a flicker of desperate pleading.

"Remember," he says, for the record. "You cannot lie."

After she denies it, the rod beeps, then abruptly shuts off. He stares at the dead panel, then back at her.

A long, silent beat. Then, his entire demeanor shifts. The severity melts away, leaving a profound exhaustion, and something softer. He deactivates her restraints with a touch.

“You passed."

He moves forward, his movements now fluid with a familiar grace. He gently removes the collar, his fingers brushing her neck. The proud, cold Colonel is gone. In his place is a man looking at her as if she were the only source of light in a dark room.

"Surprised?" he murmurs, his voice now a rough, warm echo of the past. He reaches out and pats her head, the gesture achingly familiar. "Sure it's been a while, but you already forgot about me?"

He sees the tears in her eyes, the disbelief. He leans in, his forehead nearly touching hers, his next words a whispered confession meant only for her.

"It's me... It's okay. I'm back."