Terran Commonwealth, Epsilon Prime, Garipan — War Planning Department

  The door slid shut behind the last staff officer, silencing the room's clamor in an instant. A still-warm cup of coffee sat steaming on the table. Only three remained: Carrick, Nia, and Jack.

  Jack wasn't sure why he'd been asked to stay. Nia's gaze met his, clear and steady. His stomach dropped, throat dry—coffee couldn't fix a sleepless night.

  Carrick slid a datapad across the table. "Lieutenant, this mission's high-risk. We need you to go behind enemy lines. To rescue someone."

  The words "behind enemy lines" hit like a system crash. Jack's first instinct was to say no. He glanced up, catching Nia's faint, unreadable look.

  "Yes, General," he said, voice hoarse.

  Carrick nodded, as if confirming an order already set in stone. "I'll be straight with you—the target is Cyril, a general of the Draconian Imperium."

  Jack's head snapped up. " Cyril?"

  "Yes." Carrick's eyes were like steel. "We believe he's under house arrest. A palace decree has cut him off, with the Ministry of Internal Affairs taking over his movements and communications. Purges like this don't get announced to the front lines."

  Jack stayed silent, waiting for the rest.

  Carrick didn't mince words. "The leader of the Free Line, 'Talos,' is Cyril. That identity was leaked to the Imperium's higher-ups by Colonel Croft, director of the Fourth Research Lab—a traitor on their payroll."

  "Why let Croft leak it?" Jack asked.

  Carrick fixed him with a stare, like he was a chess piece about to be played. "Because I ordered it. We need the Imperium deaf in Epsilon for a while. Without Cyril, their military will flounder. That chaos is valuable to us."

  He paused, letting the following words land. "You might think we want to ally with Cyril. Let's be clear—in a politician's eyes, there are no friends, only interests. Cyril 's too strong, too hard to control. You've seen his command firsthand; our generals can't match that. We got lucky outsmarting him once, maybe twice. But next time? The Commonwealth's fate can't hinge on one man's goodwill."

  His voice dropped. "There are no indispensable pieces, only players who can't be controlled. The Free Line lacks governing experience; they're malleable. Cyril isn't. He's an outlier."

  Jack stared at the ring of light on his coffee's surface, thinking of the "Orion Sigil." He flipped that puzzle piece over in his mind, and on the back was a single word: eliminate. From that moment, the outcome was already written—he was just reading it aloud now.

  Carrick went on. "I also had Croft slip in that the Third and Ninth Fleets have returned to the Central Sector, ready to reinforce. In reality, they're still in the Public Sector. When the Imperium swallows that fake intel, they'll swallow a truth with it: Cyril 's name."

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  "They'll move against him," Carrick said. "We just need to time it right."

  "So," Jack said, voice rough, "what do you want me to do?"

  "Extract him," Carrick said calmly. "Or—if extraction isn't possible—kill him."

  The air held only the faint scent of coffee.

  Nia looked away. She didn't speak, just clutched her folder tighter. It wasn't dissent—it was knowing.

  Carrick slid the mission brief across the table, like a clean invoice:

  Mission Brief (Summary)? Window: 24 hours (garrison shift change / ceremonial rehearsal gap)? Target ID: DNA fragment + iris scan secondary verification (anti-decoy)? Rules of Engagement (ROE): Prioritize extraction; if escape impossible → terminate; capture strictly forbidden? Exfil Route: Classified? Political Stance: This operation does not exist. —No trace of us

  "Remember," Carrick said, locking eyes with Jack, "the public needs a win; the president needs a legitimate win. The Free Line needs a 'cooperative' ally, not an untamable leader with his own authority."

  Jack looked at him, seeing the hand across the chessboard—deliberate, precise, each move landing with a quiet thud.

  He asked one final question. "What if I get him out?"

  "Then we'll give him 'reasons' to side with the Commonwealth," Carrick said. "And we'll be ready for what happens if he doesn't choose us."

  Nia finally looked up. Her voice was soft. "This isn't a tactical mission, it's—"

  "A political cleanup," Carrick finished for her.

  He pushed the datapad back to Jack. "Go. You've handled tougher."

  Jack nodded. He didn't look at the pad again. The real orders were already in motion. He glanced at Nia, then opened the door.

  The door opened and closed. The corridor was quiet, his footsteps echoing on the floor. A phrase hit him: No trace of us.

  The genius of politics wasn't deciding who lived or died—it was deciding who could be seen.

  He tucked the Obsidian Star into his jacket pocket, straightened his cap, and vanished under Yuna's gaze.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

  In the room, only Nia and Carrick remained.

  Nia stared at the door, her voice barely audible. "General, why now? We just lost so many ships."

  Carrick didn't answer right away. He walked to the window, looking at the smoldering military port in the distance.

  "Nia, what does a war hero become in peacetime? At best, they're sidelined. At worst, they stage a coup. I can't let the Commonwealth take that risk."

  He turned. " Cyril l's too good. The longer he lives, the more he becomes 'necessary' to everyone. By then, we won't be able to touch him."

  "And Jack? He's just a technician."

  "He's a technician who's survived 13 times," Carrick said evenly. "And no one will suspect him of political ambition. The perfect executor."

  He returned to the table, gathering his files. "Politics' first rule—never let anyone become irreplaceable. Not even me."

  Nia listened, her fingers gripping the edge of the folder. She thought of Jack's clumsy fingers fumbling with her buttons that night, and his voice against her shoulder: "I never thought I'd have a moment like this."

  It was her first time. Maybe her last.

  She knew Carrick was right—the political logic was airtight, the military necessity clear. As an officer, she understood the rationale behind the decision. As a woman, she wanted to run after Jack, tell him to flee, to get as far away as he could.

  But she did nothing. She stood there, watching the door close, listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor.

  "General," she said at last, her voice steadier than she expected, "what's the success rate?"

  "Doesn't matter," Carrick replied. "What matters is we control the outcome."

  Nia nodded. She understood: whether Jack succeeded or failed, the Commonwealth would get the answer it wanted.

  Cyril would either be controlled or erased. As for Jack—

  She thought of the look he gave her before leaving. Confusion, fear, but no resentment. He didn't even know she hadn't been told the mission's true purpose.

  The Night Witch was about to move. Nia looked up; the sky was already beginning to light up.