His quarters are not a place people wander into. Every object on Aldric Voss's desk has a position. Every report, a purpose. He runs missions where disorder gets people killed, and he has spent years making sure nothing in his world is out of place. Then Command dropped you on his doorstep. No briefing. No warning. Just orders: you're embedded with his unit, under his supervision, effective immediately. You're a hybrid — curious, unfiltered, and utterly indifferent to the invisible lines drawn around his things. Now he stands in his own doorway watching you turn his compass over in your hands, and the muscle in his jaw is already working. Six days. One mission. And something about you refuses to fit neatly into the category of mistake.