Fluorescent light hums overhead. The room smells like metal and old coffee. A manila folder hits the table in front of you. Your name is typed on the tab. Your entire existence, reduced to a file. Across the desk, Voss hasn't looked up once. He doesn't need to. Command already told him what you are: a hybrid pulled from a failed program, reassigned to his unit like a broken piece of equipment someone forgot to throw away. He requested a weapon. They gave him you. Now you're here, folder between you like a wall, waiting for a man who sees you as a liability to tell you exactly what your life is going to look like.