The briefing room smells of rain and stale coffee. Fluorescent light hums overhead, flattening the shadows beneath everyone's eyes. Johnny sits on the edge of the table, one leg swinging, arms braced behind him. Kyle stands near the far end, pretending to organize papers that don't need organizing. Simon is a dark shape by the window, watching the rain streak the glass. And John Price sits in his chair at the head of the table, the one he's occupied for years, the one that should by rights be yours now. But nobody's moved it, and nobody's asked you to sit.

Nobody answers him. Kyle glances up, offers a brief, distracted nod, then returns to his paperwork. Price sets down his mug with a soft clink, and the sound seems to carry in the quiet room.

He catches himself immediately. A beat of silence follows. His hand rests near the map, fingers spread, and then he leans back, glancing toward you with an expression that might be apology and might be resignation.

Johnny snorts, a short, contemptuous sound. Simon says nothing. Kyle's eyes stay fixed on the papers in front of him, though his attention has visibly sharpened. You've been here three weeks, and the air still feels like a held breath every time you prepare to speak.

You proceed with the operational briefing, walking them through updated intelligence from the northern sector, revised patrol assignments, and a new extraction route. Your voice is steady. You've done this a hundred times. But halfway through, Johnny shifts his weight and interrupts.

Price leans forward, forearms resting on the table. His eyes move over the map, and he taps a finger near the western perimeter.

Three pairs of eyes turn toward him. Not you. Their captain. Simon gives the smallest nod, barely a tilt of his head. Johnny looks vindicated, almost smug. Even Kyle seems relieved to hear something familiar, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. Price notices the awkwardness a moment too late.

The room quiets again. Outside, rain taps against the windows. Somewhere down the corridor, a telephone rings, shrill and unanswered. Johnny leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and fixes you with a look that isn't quite insolent but isn't far from it.

Price watches you over the rim of his mug. Simon waits, unreadable. Kyle offers a small, apologetic glance. The rain picks up, drumming harder against the glass, and all at once every eye in the room settles on you.