His two aides, both full-bird colonels, stopped at the flap like they’d hit a glass wall. They knew better than to enter a scene he was processing.

Wallace’s eyes did a single, slow sweep of the room. He didn’t gawk. He assessed. He saw the downed Rangers. He saw the scattered sim-rounds. He saw the cadets, frozen in terror and confusion. He saw my stupid blue gun.

And then his eyes landed on her.

She hadn’t moved. She just stood there, rifle at the low-ready, a perfect image of disciplined, potential violence. She was the calm center of the storm I had created.

Wallace’s expression didn’t change, not at first. He just looked at her, truly looked at her, for a long, silent moment. There was a flicker. Not surprise. Recognition. But a kind of recognition that was deep and troubled. He had seen posture like that before, but not here. Not in a mess tent full of kids.