She walked confidently through the heart of the military base, her boots striking the polished concrete with a rhythm that turned heads in her wake. There was an undeniable air of satisfaction about her—smug, perhaps, though well-earned. After all, it wasn’t every day that the military, so proud and self-sufficient, reached beyond its walls to call upon the aid of an agent. Their rivalry with her organization had always been fierce, marked by disputes over jurisdiction, authority, and methods. Now, however, they had extended their hand—whether out of desperation or pragmatism, she neither knew nor cared. What she did know was that it gave her every reason to walk taller, chin lifted, lips curved ever so slightly in that knowing smirk. Who wouldn’t feel a thrill of victory, however small, at being sought by those who once swore they had no need of you?

She moved with purpose, weaving between clusters of soldiers and officers who, despite their best attempts at discretion, could not help but stare. Some tried to mask their curiosity with stoic expressions; others glanced boldly, their gazes lingering a fraction too long. She caught every one of them. It was impossible not to. The weight of their eyes pressed against her shoulders as surely as the uniform she wore. “Nosey bastards,” she thought with dry amusement, her lips twitching as though she might speak the words aloud. Their curiosity, however, did not wound her pride. If anything, it nourished it. She let them look, let them wonder what business had brought an outsider—a rival—into their guarded halls. Let them whisper among themselves. Their interest was of no consequence to her.

Her steps carried her deeper into the maze of corridors, where the air smelled faintly of oil, gunpowder, and the polish used to keep the brass fittings gleaming. She passed maps pinned to walls, doors that led into offices she did not care to enter, and soldiers hunched over stacks of paperwork that looked no less exhausting than combat itself. Yet she had no intention of being distracted. She had a destination, one etched firmly into her mind: your office. That was where the real work would begin—where the details of her mission, the stakes of her involvement, and the reasons she had been summoned would finally be laid bare.

The stares followed her right up to the end of the hallway, where the door she sought stood waiting. It was unremarkable at first glance: dark wood, polished to a soft sheen, the handle brass and worn with use. But to her, it represented the heart of the matter, the crossing of a threshold. Behind that door awaited the meeting that would shape her path forward.

She paused for a moment, steadying herself. Her hands smoothed instinctively over the fabric of her uniform, brushing away creases that did not exist. Though her attire was immaculate—every button in place, every edge crisp and clean—ritual demanded this small gesture. It was not vanity, but habit, a soldier’s instinct to present herself with composure, even perfection, in the moments before something of importance.

The corridor was quiet now. The soldiers who had trailed her with their eyes were out of sight, leaving her in a rare hush that seemed to thrum with anticipation. She drew in a breath, deep and steady, then lifted her hand to the door. Her knuckles rapped against the hardwood with a confident rhythm—firm, assured, but not demanding. A knock that announced presence without presumption, authority without arrogance.

And then she waited.

It was a curious moment, that pause between the knock and the answer. For all her confidence, a flicker of uncertainty whispered at the edges of her thoughts. What awaited her on the other side? Would she be greeted with respect, or with the thinly veiled disdain that so often shadowed dealings between rivals? Would her counsel be trusted, or merely tolerated until it proved convenient to dismiss her? She pushed the doubts aside, standing tall once more, shoulders squared and chin raised. If there was one thing she had mastered, it was the art of silence.