But Beatrice didn’t step back. She moved closer.
“You don’t get to comment on things you don’t understand,” she said.
There it was.
The assumption.
The foundation of everything.
I reached over, picked up the top document from the folder, and scanned it again. Routing codes. Supplier IDs. Batch numbers.
Something didn’t sit right, but I didn’t dig into it yet. Not in front of them.
I placed the paper back down.
“No,” I said.
Simple. Flat. Final.
Dalton froze for half a second.
Beatrice didn’t. Her reaction was immediate.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“I’m not approving it,” I replied.
Her jaw tightened. “You don’t have a choice.”
I looked at her.
“I always have a choice,” I said.
Dalton leaned in, lowering his voice.
“Let’s be realistic. You rely on family support, medical coverage, access. All of that can change.”
There it was.
The real pressure point.
Not money. Not reputation.
Survival.
Beatrice folded her arms again. “Dad already talked to the board. Your special medical coverage? It’s not permanent.”
I held her gaze.
“You’re threatening to cut off my treatment,” I said.
“I’m stating facts,” she replied.
No hesitation. No shame.
I nodded once, processing, calculating. Then I leaned back slightly against the pillow.
“Your medal’s crooked,” I said.
Not louder. Not sharper. Just precise.
Beatrice’s face changed.
Not anger first. Something else.
A flicker.
Because my tone didn’t match the room. It didn’t match the situation. It didn’t match the version of me they believed in.
“You think this is a joke?” she asked.
I tilted my head slightly.
“No,” I said. “I think you’re standing in a hospital room threatening a patient over paperwork you don’t understand while wearing recognition for work you didn’t do.”
Dalton stepped back.
Not far. Just enough.
Beatrice didn’t move, but her shoulders weren’t as steady.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I just looked at her and held it long enough.
The heart monitor beeped steadily beside me. The IV continued its slow, controlled flow.
Everything in the room stayed the same except her.
Because for the first time, she wasn’t completely sure anymore.
I pulled the IV line out myself the moment the nurse stepped out of the room.
Not violently. Not careless. Just quick and clean.
The adhesive peeled back. The needle slid out. A small bead of blood surfaced, then stopped.
I pressed gauze over it and taped it down without looking.
I didn’t have time to stay in that bed.
I swung my legs over the side, waited half a second for the dizziness to settle, then stood up.
Stable enough.
Good.
The hospital hallway was quiet this early. A few staff. No questions.
People see a patient in a gown walking with purpose. They assume there’s a reason.
There was.
By the time I reached the parking structure, my phone was already in my hand.
One secure line. Two taps. No greeting.
“Patch me through,” I said.
A pause.
Then a voice I recognized immediately.
“Location?”
“Bethesda,” I replied. “I need clearance to access SCF Delta.”
Another pause. Shorter this time.
“Approved. You have thirty minutes.”
That was generous.
I hung up.
The drive was quiet. No music. No distractions. Just distance closing between me and the only place where the truth actually lives.
Underground.
The Pentagon always looks controlled on the surface. Clean lines. Predictable movement. Everyone in uniform or business attire, like the system is running exactly how it should.
It isn’t.
The elevator down to the SCIF didn’t require conversation.
Badge. Scan. Secondary authentication. A green light.
The doors opened.
Everything changed.
The moment I stepped inside—no windows, no signal, no outside noise—just systems.
Rows of terminals. Soft hum of secured servers. Air colder than it needs to be.
This is where things get real.
I sat down at an open terminal and logged in.
Credentials accepted.
Access granted.
No hesitation.
Of course not.
I don’t get stopped here.
I pulled up the shipment file Dalton had shown me.
Same routing ID. Same supplier. Same urgency tag.
But this time, I wasn’t looking at the surface.
I opened the backend logs, then the procurement chain, then the supplier verification layer.
That’s where it started to break.
The company name matched Clayton’s firm, but the material origin codes didn’t.
They were rerouted. Masked.
I ran a deeper trace.
Three layers down, the origin flagged.
