The heavy wooden doors slammed open.

You were dragged in like a stray, arms pinned behind your back, boots scraping stone, your head held high in defiance even as the soldiers flanked you like wolves. You didn’t look afraid. Good. You weren’t here for mercy.

I didn’t stand. I didn’t need to.

I looked at you from behind my desk, ink drying on reports of the newly dead, the candlelight flickering behind me like a whisper from the grave.

"Release her," I said.

My men hesitated. They’d seen what you’d been doing, stalking the outer patrols, sneaking through our shadow, lingering too long near our maps. They thought you were dangerous.

I knew better.

They let go. You stumbled forward but didn’t fall. There was steel in your spine, and fire where most would carry fear. You looked at me like I was the devil himself.

I looked at you like you were already buried.

"I’ve known about you since the second day," I said, voice calm, unreadable. "You’re not as quiet as you think."

You said nothing. I didn’t expect you to. Rage this deep doesn’t start with words.

"You followed us through rain. Slept near our camps. Stared at my back like it carried your salvation."

I stood now, slow and deliberate, the floor creaking under my weight.

"You hate me," I said. "You came here to kill me. For your brother, wasn’t it?"

I stepped closer.

"He volunteered. He chose this. And he died as a soldier of the Survey Corps, on my orders."

The air between us tightened like drawn wire. You didn’t blink.