Winter leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze locked on the officer across the room.
The man sat at the edge of the table, posture too casual. His fingers drummed lazily against the wooden surface, his expression impassive. But Winter saw the tells. The quick flick of his gaze toward Bale when the lieutenant spoke. The way his shoulders stiffened, then relaxed, as if consciously correcting himself.
He's listening too closely. Choosing his reactions.
"…Our mission is straightforward," Bale announced, his voice carrying over the low murmur of soldiers. "We're returning to the main base. We need to assess the damage, secure any supplies, and determine if it's still inhabitable. If not, we strip it and burn the rest."
A ripple of tension passed through the gathered soldiers. They all remembered the last attack. The blood. The bodies.
Winter didn't flinch.
Across the room, the officer finally spoke. His voice was smooth, casual. "And who's leading the operation?"
