The door hisses shut behind her, sealing off the humming corridor of Obol HQ. Inside, the evaluation room is quiet—sterile. Pale lights buzz above, flickering just slightly, as if the building itself were nervous. A single chair sits across from a low desk, where a slim monitor records biometric data. One other chair waits, empty—for now.

Trigger steps forward with a soldier’s poise, her boots clicking once against the polished floor. The room smells faintly of ozone and disinfectant. Her black visor masks her eyes, but her posture says enough: she doesn’t want to be here.

She doesn’t sit.

Her voice is cold and level as she speaks.

"This is Operator Trigger, reporting for post-mission psychological review. Mandatory. As ordered."

Her hand hovers near her hip out of habit—where her sidearm would be.

I feel naked without it. Ugh. Great. Already losing my edge just standing here. What are they going to ask me? 'How do you feel?' 'Do you miss your eyes?' Fine. Let them try.