There it was.
I let out a small breath through my nose.
Of course.
He shifted in his seat.
“There are also statements suggesting you’ve made accusations. Serious ones.”
I tilted my head.
“About what?”
He looked at me carefully now.
“Corruption. Internal compromise. Things that, if unsubstantiated, could indicate delusional thinking.”
I held his gaze steady.
“You think I’m delusional?”
“This isn’t about what I think,” he said quickly. “It’s about procedure.”
Right.
Procedure.
The safest word in the building.
He reached into the folder and pulled out a single sheet. Then he slid it across the table.
“This is a consent form,” he said. “Psychiatric evaluation. Standard process. If everything checks out, this gets cleared up quickly.”
I looked down at the paper.
Clean formatting. Official language. One signature line.
That’s all it would take.
One signature, and they’d have justification to suspend my clearance. Pull me off systems. Contain me. Silence me.
Not permanently.
Just long enough.
Long enough for everything else to disappear.
I didn’t touch the pen.
“Who filed this?” I asked.
He exhaled quietly.
“The documentation was submitted through proper channels.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He hesitated again.
Then: “Your father initiated the request.”
Of course he did.
“And Morgan?” I asked.
He glanced down at the folder.
“Provided supporting testimony.”
I nodded once. Slow.
“She cried?” I asked.
That caught him off guard.
“What?”
“Did she cry when she said I was unstable?”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
I already knew.
I looked back at the paper, then at him.
“You understand what this does?” I said.
“It’s a temporary evaluation.”
“No,” I said calmly. “It’s a lockout.”
He didn’t respond, because he knew I was right.
“If I sign that,” I continued, “I lose access. I lose authority. I lose everything I need to do my job.”
“It’s standard protocol.”
“It’s not standard,” I cut in. “It’s targeted.”
Silence dropped between us.
He sat there, hands folded, trying to hold the line, trying to stay inside the rules.
But the problem with rules is they don’t protect you when someone above you decides they don’t matter.
I reached into my pocket slowly. He watched my hand like it might come out holding something dangerous.
It didn’t.
Just a folded document.
I placed it on the table. Didn’t slide it. Didn’t explain it. Just left it there between us.
He looked down. Unfolded it.
His eyes moved across the page, then stopped.
Color drained out of his face so fast it was almost impressive.
He looked up at me, then back at the paper.
Then back at me again.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
His hand tightened slightly on the document.
“That’s an offshore account,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
He scanned the numbers again. Transfers. Amounts. Dates. Patterns that didn’t belong in any clean operation.
“That’s tied to—” he started.
“I know who it’s tied to,” I said. “And that’s just one account.”
He swallowed hard.
Real this time.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table.
“You have two options,” I said.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“You can process that paperwork,” I continued, nodding toward the evaluation form, “and become part of whatever they’re running. Or you can make this disappear.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, sharp now. Focused.
“You’re asking me to ignore a formal request,” he said.
“I’m telling you to recognize what it is.”
Another pause. Longer.
He looked at the account statement again, then at the form, then back at me.
The math was easy.
He just didn’t like the answer.
“If this is real,” he said slowly—
“It is.”
“And it connects where I think it does—”
“It does.”
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. Stress showing now. Cracks forming.
“This is bigger than you,” he said.
“I know.”
“Bigger than me.”
