I enter the office. The door closes behind me.
The room is designed for intimidation: high ceiling, minimal furniture, a single chair positioned in front of a desk that's slightly too tall. The psychology is basic but effective. Make the subject feel small. Make them look up.
I sit. I don't feel small. I've been conditioned to resist these tactics since childhood.
Abernathy takes his seat, opens a folder, spreads the contents across the desk. I recognize the documents: Elliot's acquisition file, my transfer request, Jagger's fabricated directive.
"Your brother's story is creative," Abernathy says. "Internal audit. Weakness assessment. Very neat."
I say nothing.
"The problem is, it’s a lie. There was no such order. Not issued by me." He leans back, folds his hands. "Which means either your brother lied to the Tribunal, or someone above my clearance is running an operation I don't know about."
"Both seem unlikely."
"One of them is true." His eyes are flat, assessing. "Which is it, Harrison?"
I calculate the options. Admit Jagger lied, and we both face reconditioning or worse. Maintain the fiction, and Abernathy keeps digging until he finds the truth anyway.
Third option: redirect.
"The asset has intelligence value," I say. "Senator Moore's network. Acquisition routes. Handler protocols. He was embedded for eighteen months. He knows things that aren't in any file."
Abernathy's expression doesn't change, but I see the flicker of interest. Moore is a problem the Ministry has been trying to solve for years. An asset who's gotten too comfortable, too careless, too convinced of his own invulnerability.
"You're saying the asset can give us Moore?"
"I'm saying the asset has information worth extracting before you dispose of him."
It's not a lie. Elliot does have information. Whether he can access it through the trauma is another question, but Abernathy doesn't need to know that.
The Director is silent for a long moment. I wait. Patience is a weapon, and I've been sharpening mine since I was eight years old.
"One week," Abernathy says finally. "You have one week to produce something actionable. If the asset can't deliver, he goes back to Acquisition for reassessment." He pauses. "And you and I will have a different conversation about your judgment."
"Understood."
"Dismissed."
I stand, turn, walk to the door. My hand is on the handle when Abernathy speaks again.
"Harrison."
I stop. Don't turn.
"Webb requested a copy of your acquisition file this morning. All of it." A pause. "I'd be careful, if I were you. Erasure doesn't request files unless they're planning to use them."
I nod once and leave.
One week. Seven days to fabricate enough intelligence to justify keeping Elliot alive.
And Webb is watching. Webb is waiting. Webb has my file.
The math is getting worse. Webb is a brutal crisp of a man who trained the feelings and morality out of me. And now he wants my file.
You donotwant Alfred Webb asking for your file.
If I were smart, I’d give them my asset.
