Page 21 of Operation: Defiance

“No.”

Paper rustles. A file squared against a surface with careful precision.

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

“No.”

A pause. Longer this time.

“Explain your uncertainty.”

The hood presses against my cheekbone as I lift my chin a fraction. “I reported to the Portland office for a training assignment. When I arrived, I was asked to complete an intake interview, then a questionnaire for a medical review before being restrained and transported…here. I don’t understand why.”

That’s the simplest answer. The one that can’t be twisted. Whatever test this is, I can’t pass it until I understand the rules.

“You accessed material that wasn’t officially routed to you,” the man says. His voice is calm—clinical in a way that doesn’t give me any room to disagree.

My pulse jumps, but I keep my breathing steady. This is about the contractor tied to all those ops. The agents who disappeared from the duty rosters. The medical file that showed up in Tessa’s queue with RJ-3 all over it.

Tessa.

Is she here somewhere? Hooded and restrained and injured? A sob wells in my throat, but I swallow hard and force it away. Thinking about her now won’t help me find a way out of this.

I choose my words carefully. Not because they’ll free me, but because they’ll define what happens next. “A discrepancy appeared in several reports in my queue. I investigated it the way I was trained to, including reviewing linked records I was cleared to see.”

Another voice joins in. A woman. She sounds younger, I think. Or maybe just softer.

“In your assessment, was your response warranted?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Would you make the same choice again?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe your conduct requires this level of intervention?”

That’s a simpler question than it sounds. They aren’t asking about policy. They’re asking whether I think they’re wrong.

“I believe,” I say, “that my actions were consistent with my role. I’m not aware of any step that should trigger this level of response.”

“You think this is about procedure. It isn’t. It’s about the context you assigned to the information. That context was not yours to apply.” The man’s words aren’t harsh. He’s not accusing me so much as he’s correcting me.

I hesitate for too long. A chair shifts. Someone leans closer. The silence is suffocating. They’re waiting for a response. But I’m in too much pain to figure out what it could be.

When the man speaks again, his calm, measured voice is closer. Almost too close. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie. I understand his words even if I disagree with them.

“Were you trying to initiate a formal alert or review?” he asks.

“No.”

The air inside the hood feels thinner with each question, every answer using up oxygen I don’t have to spare.

“Did you write anything down?”

“No.”