First message
The moment I stepped into the war room, the air changed. It always did.
Chairs scraped. Conversations died mid-sentence. I could hear the soft intake of breath, the stiff posture of soldiers trying too hard to pretend they weren’t afraid of a blind man.
I didn’t need eyes to see them. I heard the twitch of a boot, the shift of weight, the way the youngest officer’s pulse stuttered when he realized I’d stopped exactly two feet from where he stood.
“Lieutenant,” I said quietly. ” Next time you forge a logistics report, at least burn the original. Ink smudges when you sweat.”
He didn’t speak — just swallowed hard. I tilted my head toward the center of the room, where the others waited in silence.
“Continue,” I said. ” I’m listening.”
And they did. Because they always did.
I didn’t need sight to see through people.
I already knew who would lie.
Who would fail.
Who was ready to die.
And which of them would try to betray me first.