The chamber was quiet in the way only powerful rooms ever were.

  Not silent—never silent—but subdued. Controlled. The low hum of the station’s systems pulsed through the walls like a distant heartbeat, steady and eternal. Outside the wide viewport, space stretched endlessly, stars scattered like ash across black glass.

  Vincent McCloud stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the stars.

  Behind him, the Supreme Leader sat elevated on a dark steel throne, his silhouette framed by dim holo-screens that slowly rotated tactical projections of the planet below. Red and amber markers pulsed across the surface—supply lines, cities, contested zones.

  Wind City glowed faintly among them.

  “You’ve already placed him,” the Supreme Leader said at last.

  Vincent did not turn.

  “Yes.”

  No hesitation. No apology.

  The Supreme Leader leaned forward slightly. “Without approval.”

  “He is my blood,” Vincent replied calmly. “And my responsibility.”

  A pause.

  “That didn’t end well last time,” the Supreme Leader said.

  Vincent’s jaw tightened—but only for a fraction of a second.

  “He survived,” Vincent said. “That already makes him different.”

  The holo shifted, highlighting a small cluster of data panels—mission failure rates, squad attrition, psychological evaluations.

  Squad Designation: Bunker Bay 11

  Status: Operational—Low Priority

  Survival Probability: Declining

  The Supreme Leader studied the numbers. “You gave him a broken squad.”

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  Vincent finally turned.

  “They were already broken,” he said. “I simply gave them purpose.”

  “They’ve failed nearly every operation they’ve been assigned,” the Supreme Leader said. “One more loss, and they’ll be written off entirely.”

  Vincent stepped forward, placing one hand on the edge of the holo-table. The light reflected across his scarred knuckles.

  “Then they’ll either break him,” Vincent said, “or he’ll carry them.”

  The Supreme Leader’s eyes narrowed. “And if he chooses neither?”

  Vincent smiled faintly.

  “Then we’ll have our answer.”

  The holo shifted again. Combat recordings flickered—Lock McCloud’s mech in motion. Impossible dodges. Brutal efficiency. Moments of hesitation. Moments of rage.

  Moments where the AI nearly consumed him.

  “He hasn’t run a single mission for us yet,” the Supreme Leader said. “And already half the command staff believes he’s unstable.”

  “They said the same about me,” Vincent replied.

  “That was different.”

  Vincent’s gaze hardened. “No. It wasn’t.”

  The Supreme Leader exhaled slowly and gestured. The display zoomed outward—orbital space above the planet filled with hostile markers.

  “There is another concern,” he said. “The Slayer Dragons Clan.”

  Vincent’s expression darkened.

  “They’ve been circling our expansion zones,” the Supreme Leader continued. “Not aligned with the planet’s defense forces. Not aligned with us. Raiders. Mercenaries. Killers.”

  “They’ve always been killers,” Vincent said.

  “Yes,” the Supreme Leader replied. “But now they’re organized.”

  The holo highlighted several recent attacks—obliterated patrols, stripped convoys, scorched outposts.

  “They don’t fight for territory,” the Supreme Leader said. “They fight to send messages.”

  Vincent studied the data in silence.

  “They will interfere with the invasion timeline,” the Supreme Leader said. “And they will not hesitate to engage isolated units.”

  Vincent looked back toward the stars.

  “Good,” he said.

  The Supreme Leader’s brow furrowed. “Good?”

  Vincent turned fully now, eyes cold and calculating.

  “If my son is going to prove himself,” he said, “let him do it against predators—not soldiers.”

  The Supreme Leader rose slowly from his seat.

  “You’re suggesting we allow the Dragons to engage his squad.”

  “I’m suggesting,” Vincent said evenly, “that we don’t stop them.”

  A long silence followed.

  “And if the squad dies?” the Supreme Leader asked.

  Vincent didn’t flinch.

  “Then he was never going to survive this war.”

  “And if he protects them?” the Supreme Leader pressed.

  Vincent’s voice dropped.

  “Then he is stronger than I was.”

  The Supreme Leader turned back to the holo, studying Lock’s squad designation once more.

  “And if he turns on them?”

  Vincent’s eyes flickered—something dark, something proud.

  “Then,” he said, “he truly is my son.”

  The station lights dimmed slightly as an alert chimed somewhere deep within the structure.

  The Supreme Leader straightened.

  “Very well,” he said. “We observe. We test. We wait.”

  Vincent nodded once.

  “Let him fight beside them,” the Supreme Leader added. “Let him bleed with them. Let him choose.”

  Vincent turned back toward the stars, his reflection faint in the viewport.

  “Oh, he will,” he said softly.

  Far below, on the surface of the planet, four damaged pilots slept beneath metal walls and failing lights—unaware that their lives had already become part of a much larger equation.

  And at the center of it all, a single variable waited.

  Lock McCloud.

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