Blaring alarms.
Ringing tal.
Sirens.
That was all Director Graham could hear as consciousness slowly clawed its way back.
The noise battered against his skull.
His breathing ca out uneven as he struggled to move.
His eyes tried to open.
At first only a thin slit.
The world beyond was distorted, shapes and colors blurring together. Red light flashed again and again across the control room, the ergency lamps painting everything in violent bursts.
His vision struggled to focus.
Through the narrow gap of his eyelids, he could still make out one figure standing near the central console.
Commander Miller.
She stood facing the main screens.
The monitors no longer showed city surveillance.
Instead, the displays were filled with military data.
Rows of teletry.
Missile silo feeds.
Launch confirmation markers.
And above them all, a curved projection charting multiple trajectories arcing outward from the facility.
Missiles.
His eyes widened slightly as recognition struggled through the haze.
At the sa ti, a voice blared through the control room speakers.
Clear.
Professional.
Controlled despite the urgency.
"This is Strategic Command Node Seven. Identification code Sierra-Kilo-Nine."
The voice belonged to a senior officer.
"We are detecting unauthorized missile launches originating from SHQ Weapons Complex Alpha."
A brief pause.
"We require imdiate confirmation from the site director."
Another screen flashed.
Numbers climbed.
Trajectory paths updated in real ti.
"Director Graham, respond imdiately. Confirm whether this launch sequence was authorized."
The voice lowered slightly, the words still calm but firr now.
"If we do not receive confirmation, Strategic Command will initiate remote kill-switch procedures and assu site compromise."
Another pause.
The alarms continued screaming across the room.
"Follow compromise protocol and prepare for forced override."
Graham’s head swam.
The words barely settled in his mind before confusion followed.
Unauthorized launches?
His hands trembled as sensation crept back into his body.
Pain followed with it.
A wet warmth slid down his face.
Blood.
He lifted a shaking hand toward his nose, feeling the sticky trail running past his lips.
Despite the chaos filling the room—
Commander Miller looked...
Remorseful.
She stood at the console with one hand covering her face.
Her fingers dragged slowly downward as if wiping away a weight only she could feel. When her hand fell away, both palms pressed against the console surface.
Her head lowered.
For a mont she remained there.
Almost still.
Almost regretful.
But it passed quickly.
She raised her head again.
At that mont Graham shifted against the damaged console behind him.
His body scraped weakly across the floor.
Scrrrt~
The movent caught her attention.
Her gaze turned toward him.
The stern expression had already returned.
No emotion remained.
Graham forced himself up slightly.
His sleeve rose to his face as he wiped the blood running from his nose.
His voice ca out rough.
Weak.
"What the hell... do you think you’re doing?"
Commander Miller stepped away from the console.
Her boots crossed the floor slowly as she approached him.
Graham’s eyes drifted toward his cane lying several feet away.
His hand reached toward it.
Fingers stretching.
Almost there—
THUD~
Commander Miller’s boot ca down hard on his foot.
Pain shot through his leg instantly.
"Ghh—!"
A low groan escaped him as his body curled slightly.
He looked up at her.
Blood sared across his face.
Confusion still clouding his eyes.
"Don’t struggle," Miller said calmly.
Her voice never rose.
"If you don’t..."
She paused briefly.
"...I assure you your daughter will make it through this alive."
The mont the words left her mouth—
Sothing inside Graham snapped.
His eyes widened.
Rage replaced confusion in an instant.
Without warning he twisted his body and swung his leg out in a sweeping arc toward her stance.
The strike carried what strength he could gather.
WHUMP~
His leg slamd into hers.
But Miller didn’t move.
Not even an inch.
Instead—
A short shockwave rolled across the floor from the collision.
BWUMP~
Then—
CRACK~
The sound echoed through the control room.
Not her bone.
His.
Graham’s leg buckled imdiately.
A raw groan tore from his throat as he collapsed back against the console.
Commander Miller moved again.
This ti far faster.
Her hand shot forward and grabbed his head.
Her grip clamped around his skull as if it weighed nothing.
WHAM~
She slamd him backward into the console.
tal groaned under the impact.
"I understand your rage, Director."
Her voice ca from directly above him.
"But this is necessary."
She released his head.
For the briefest mont he slumped forward—
Then her knee drove upward.
CRACK~
The strike smashed directly into his chin.
His head snapped violently upward.
Blood sprayed across the floor.
His jaw broke instantly under the force.
Graham’s eyes rolled back.
His entire body locked rigid for a mont before collapsing.
Thud~
He dropped to the ground.
Unconscious.
Behind Miller—
A faint shift of air.
Her ears twitched slightly.
She turned her head just enough to see the man standing near the doorway.
The tall soldier she had left overseeing the loading operation.
He had entered quietly.
Still standing straight despite the chaos.
Miller didn’t fully turn toward him.
"There’s no turning back after this, Captain Moretti."
The soldier snapped into a salute imdiately.
"I follow you, Commander," he said firmly.
"We are ready to carry out the operation at your orders."
Miller’s eyes returned to the console.
Missile trajectories continued updating across the screens.
"After the missiles I fired reach their targets," she said, "we will only have a small window before the system locks us out."
Her fingers hovered over the console controls.
"Begin Phase Two."
"Ma’am!"
Moretti saluted again and turned to leave.
But before he reached the doorway—
"And Moretti."
He stopped.
His posture remained straight as he glanced back.
Commander Miller still faced the console.
She didn’t turn toward him.
Her head lowered slightly.
For just a mont she looked...
Burdened.
Her voice, however, never changed.
"We cannot fail."
A brief pause.
"Am I clear?"
Moretti’s eyes flicked toward Director Graham’s unconscious body lying on the floor.
His expression remained unchanged.
He saluted once more.
"Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am."
Then he turned and exited the control room.
---
anwhile, back at SHU—
Very little had changed on the viewing deck.
The events below continued at a steady rhythm. Another round of demonstrations had begun on the arena floor. One competitor launched forward in a burst of speed—crack~—crossing half the field before spectators in the lower stands even finished reacting.
Up here, however, the atmosphere remained much the sa.
Conversation.
Quiet laughter.
Deals whispered over half-finished drinks.
Samantha and Claire sat with their chairs angled slightly toward each other. Samantha leaned forward with growing interest as Claire spoke, one hand resting lightly along the edge of her side table.
"So the academy really allows students to operate drones that large?" Samantha asked.
Claire gave a small nod.
"They are restricted models, of course. Training units."
She reached for her glass before continuing.
"But the pilots still require clearance before they are allowed near them. The instructors are rather strict about that."
Samantha blinked.
"Oh my. I imagine they would be."
She shook her head faintly.
"I can barely manage my kitchen appliances so days."
Claire allowed a faint smile at that.
Between them, Don remained seated.
He participated occasionally—offering a short remark here or there—but for the most part he simply listened.
Sotis his gaze rested on the screens hovering above the arena floor.
Other tis he listened.
Don leaned back slightly in his seat.
Then—
Footsteps approached from behind.
Quick.
He turned his head casually.
Charles stood there.
His outfit looked as though it had stepped out of a Monaco harbor club.
A cream linen blazer rested neatly over a pale blue shirt with the top button open. His trousers were pressed white slacks paired with brown loafers polished to a quiet shine. A slim gold watch circled his wrist, catching the light whenever he moved.
Refined.
But the expression on his face didn’t match the outfit.
He looked deeply concerned.
One hand clutched his phone so tightly the knuckles had gone pale.
"Good afternoon," Charles said.
He tried to smile.
It was forced.
Miss Claire reacted first.
She tilted her head toward him smoothly before offering a polite nod.
"Mr. Monclaire."
Samantha followed a second later.
"Oh—Good afternoon, Charles."
Charles acknowledged them both briefly before shifting his gaze to Don.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, lowering his voice slightly. "But can I borrow him for a bit?"
Samantha blinked once.
"Oh—uhm. That’s no issue."
Her eyes moved toward Don.
Don had already begun standing.
His height drew attention imdiately as he rose from the chair.
He stepped away from them without comnt.
Charles turned and walked a short distance from the seating cluster, Don following behind him.
They didn’t go far.
Only a few steps beyond the nearest group.
Charles stopped.
The forced smile disappeared instantly.
His expression beca grave again.
"I think sothing is wrong."
Don’s brow furrowed slightly.
"What do you an?"
Charles hesitated.
His eyes moved across the deck.
People stood everywhere.
Too many conversations.
Too many ears.
Instead of answering aloud, he unlocked his phone and typed quickly.
Tap—tap—tap~
Then he turned the screen toward Don.
Don read the ssage.
**My family’s satellite picked up multiple projectiles above Santos City.**
**Missiles from the looks of it.**
**They ca from SHQ.**
Don’s brow tightened further.
Missiles?
His mind moved quickly through possibilities.
Was the city under attack?
Was SHQ launching so form of defense?
That seed like the most obvious explanation.
But before he could form a response—
His ears caught a voice near the front of the viewing deck.
A woman spoke with casual curiosity.
"What is that, dear?"
Her partner answered after a mont.
"Must be one of the students flying down. Trying to make a flashy entrance."
He paused.
Then added uncertainly,
"Though... he or she is coming in a bit too strong..."
Don’s head snapped toward the front of the viewing deck.
Without a word—
He moved.
His stride cut through the room quickly. One waiter carrying a tray nearly collided with him before Don shifted past, brushing him aside as he continued forward.
"Sir—!"
The waiter steadied the tray with a startled movent.
Several heads turned.
Charles followed imdiately behind.
At the seating area, Samantha noticed Don’s sudden movent.
She leaned slightly toward the aisle.
"Is sothing wrong?"
She wasn’t asking anyone in particular.
Claire’s eyes had already moved in the direction Don had gone.
Her expression had grown more focused.
At the front of the viewing deck, several guests stood near the glass wall overlooking the arena.
As Don approached, a few people stepped aside instinctively.
Others whispered.
"What’s he doing?"
"Excuse —"
"That’s a bit rude—"
But curiosity kept them watching.
Don reached the glass.
He didn’t look down toward the field.
His gaze lifted toward the sky.
High above the stadium do—
Sothing cut through the clouds.
At first it looked like a streak of tal descending rapidly.
Then the shape beca clear.
A long cylindrical body.
Trailing smoke.
Falling far too fast.
Not a student.
Not an entrance.
A missile.
Don’s eyes widened instantly.
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