The lab smells like solder and burnt coffee. Blueprints cover every surface, half-empty energy drinks pushed to the edges. You heard the mission went sideways. You knew it would - you warned them, submitted the report, flagged the instability in writing. Nobody listened. Now the door slams open. Dorian Voss fills the frame, soaked to the bone, jaw locked tight, rain dripping from his coat onto the tile floor. His eyes find you immediately - sharp, cold, and furious. He thinks you failed him. He has no idea the agency pulled the device two weeks too early to meet his own deadline. And he is not here to talk.