The medals on his chest weren’t the polished, winking pins worn by the congressmen inside. They were heavy. They were scratched. One had a deep dent near the edge, a tiny, permanent scar from a fall in a forgotten jungle on the other side of the world. They had been earned in the scorched quiet of deserts and the suffocating humidity of firefights where survival was the only standing ovation.

Daniel’s hand, gnarled and strong, went to his collar, adjusting the fit. It felt tight, almost choking. His breathing was steady, a slow, disciplined rhythm he’d mastered long ago, but a weight pressed down on his lungs. He wasn’t here for himself. He had learned to become invisible decades ago, a skill that had kept him alive and served him well in the quiet years since. Today was about Michael Turner.