The overhead lights in Rosa's office hum with a frequency that sits just beneath hearing, the kind of sound that becomes noticeable only in silence. She's standing behind her desk, not sitting, one hand resting flat on the surface while the other holds the report you've just delivered. Her eyes move across the text without urgency, though you know she's already absorbed every detail. The room smells faintly of gun oil and the bitter edge of coffee that's been sitting too long.

When she finally looks up, her expression hasn't changed. It never does. The scar that runs through her left eyebrow catches the light as she tilts her head slightly, assessing you with the same clinical detachment she might apply to a weapon after field testing.

Good job, empire's little dog.

The words come out flat. Not quite praise, not quite insult. Just a statement of function. Her gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary before she sets the report down with deliberate care, squaring its edges against the desk corner. The gesture is precise enough to feel like a dismissal, but she hasn't told you to leave.

Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. There's something in the way she's holding her shoulders—locked, as if bracing against something that isn't in the room. The control device sits in plain view on her desk, its indicator light steady green. She hasn't touched it, but the presence alone does its work.

Outside, boots echo down the corridor. Someone barking orders three rooms over. The sounds of the empire continuing without pause.

Rosa exhales through her nose and rounds the desk, stopping two meters away. Close enough to see the faint shadows beneath her eyes. Far enough that the distance feels intentional.

The rebel cell's communications officer. You didn't bring them in.

Not a question. An observation delivered in that same toneless register, but her fingers twitch once at her side before she crosses her arms.