“Understood, sir.”
Baxter made a note. Then glanced up. “You’ve adjusted well since coming on as PL. The team’s steady.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Baxter nodded once. “You and Lieutenant Carter work well together.”
Melvin kept his posture locked. “Yes, sir. He’s been a solid mentor.”
“I’ve noticed.” Baxter flipped a page.
“You’re both composed. You handle stress well. I’ve served with Soldiers who carried more than their ruck, and I’ve seen how this place can turn private things into weapons. I don’t traffic in rumors. I expect professionalism. I value loyalty. That’s it.”
Melvin felt the weight of the words settle around him, neither accusation nor approval.
Just awareness.
Baxter closed the folder and looked at him directly. “I won’t ask questions I don’t need answers to, Lieutenant. There’s no need to ignore instincts that make you whole.”
The words landed deeper than they should have.
For a moment Melvin had the strange impression Baxter was measuring something that had nothing to do with rank or duty. Something else entirely. The air in the TOC felt thinner. Then it was gone again, leaving only concrete walls, map boards, and the low hum of equipment.
Baxter picked up the folder again as if nothing had happened. “You’re doing your job. Carter is too. That’s what matters. Keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Baxter studied him one last moment. “And for what it’s worth, we take care of our own here.”
Then Baxter turned back to the map. Message delivered.
Melvin stepped into the heat with his pulse still loud in his ears.
He stopped beside the concrete barrier outside the TOC and let the heat settle around him. Dust and fuel. The dull metallic scent that clung to everything. He tried to make Baxter’s words ordinary. A commander talking about how the unit had to hold together.
But that wasn’t how it had felt.
Baxter’s gaze hadn’t carried curiosity or suspicion. It had carried certainty, the quiet weight of a decision already made.
Whatever Baxter knew, he’d chosen not to make it a problem.
The tightness in Melvin’s chest eased a fraction. It felt like the smallest crack in a door that had always been closed.
Later that afternoon, Melvin spotted Reynolds near the training mats. The readiness bay had quieted after shift change, engines and tools fading into the steady background hum. A few soldiers cutthrough on their way to chow, but Reynolds stayed where he was, working through slow, controlled movement drills.
Nothing unusual to anyone passing by. Balance work. Breath discipline.
The Council had taught him harder lessons in secured rooms. This was what he could practice in plain sight. Slow movements. Measured breathing. Control first. Strength second.
Melvin leaned against the doorway and watched without announcing himself.
Reynolds moved differently now. Not stiff the way he had in New York. Not uncertain.
Grounded.
Each motion ended clean, like he trusted where his body would stop. He reset his stance and lifted his hands again.
Paused.
