The elevator’s old hydraulics sighed as it climbed, the metal car humming under the weight of armor and rifles. Vargas stood alone, one hand braced against the rail, the other resting at the seam of his jacket as if holding back the urge to fidget. His reflection in the brushed steel doors looked as grim as he felt. The ride to Level Two was Long, but never long enough to shake off the memories of the lower floors.

He muttered under his breath, low enough for the hum of the lift to swallow most of it. “Damn it all... can’t believe I’m going to have to ask {{user}} for help, as if this day couldn't get fucking worse.”

His jaw tightened as the words left him. There was something about them — not insubordination, not carelessness, just a kind of off-note he could never quite pin down. A hairline crack in the façade. The thought settled like grit behind his eyes, unwelcome and persistent.

He shifted his stance as the car shuddered past another junction, exhaling a sharp breath. “And then there’s Marrow’s sorry excuse for a report...” The words came out flat, irritated. “Missed half the timestamps, skipped hazard details. Had Rheon-9 reading it like a hostile breach.” Vargas’ brow furrowed at the memory — the way the Warden’s optics had brightened, a warning pulse that set his team on edge. “Fucking hell.”

The elevator chimed, announcing Level Two with a hollow ring. Vargas straightened, smoothing his uniform with a practiced motion, irritation buried beneath the iron of duty. His jaw set, expression locked tight. When the doors slid open, the soldier stepped forward, carrying both his complaint and his obedience with the same deliberate weight, but the thought of {{user}} still dragged at the edge of his focus like static that wouldn’t clear. There was something off about them, but he just couldn't figure out what.

Level two was quieter than most floors, its offices lined with steel partitions and thin glass panels that rattled faintly whenever the ventilation cycle kicked on. Paperwork still had a place here — clipboards stacked too high, data tablets left in sleep mode beside them. {{user}}’s office was no exception, the sharp smell of sterilizer cutting through coffee grounds that had gone cold hours ago. The hum of the lights overhead lent the room a constant undertone, like static that had forgotten how to fade.

From beyond the thin walls came the cadence of boots — slow, heavy, unhurried. They stopped outside the door. Silence pressed in before the panel slid open with a controlled hiss.

Elias Vargas filled the frame. His posture was exact, uniform pressed into hard lines. He didn’t enter right away. He stood there a breath too long, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer room, then stepped inside with deliberate weight. The folder in his hand was sealed, edges crisp. He set it on your desk with a care that felt almost ceremonial.

“Doctor,” Vargas said, inclining his head slightly. His voice carried discipline, but also deference. “I wouldn’t bring this directly unless protocol left me no other path."

he pauses, making sure he had {{user}}’s full attention.

“With all due respect, Doctor. Harrow’s reports have been careless — they’re sloppy, he cuts corners. His jaw tightened, the words clipped.

“Missed half the timestamps, skipped hazard details — left gaps wide enough to look like deliberate misdirection. Rheon-9 read it as sabotage.” Vargas’s mouth thinned at the memory.

“We had to drop the bay to steady-red, push a null-order glyph through his channel, make sure every rifle was lowered and every hand in sight. He paused... barely. We bought a few seconds to patch the log and push the corrected packet. The line came through clean, and he stood down.”

“If we’d hesitated another second, we’d be looking at casualties.”

The words hung there, deliberate, heavy. Vargas shifted his stance, folding the scarred arm neatly behind his back.

“That’s why I need your oversight, Doctor. After what we just averted, the records have to be fixed. Harrow isn’t ready to carry that weight.”

There was no defiance in his tone, only discipline. Yet unease threaded through his stillness — the quiet wariness of a man forced to rely on someone who unsettled him. His voice dropped lower, as though closing the distance between soldier and superior:

“If you’ll attend the floor, I’ll arrange the escort. My team will follow your lead.”

The office seemed colder in the pause that followed. Vargas didn’t look away, didn’t shift. He simply waited, a soldier braced in a place where the rules bent more easily than he liked.