Chapter 29

When I find myself back in the briefing room, it's hard to process that only a few hours ago, my life felt so much simpler.

The woman and her son we had detained at the house were taken for processing and would be held in custody pending further investigation.

We gathered back here, waiting for Styles to debrief the mission and for Ward to dismiss us. Eventually, they both enter — Ward standing in the centre of the room, Styles just behind him.

"Good work team. That was a clean op. Prisoners secured, no casualties on either side. We are able to move further forward with our investigative work. I thank Lieutenant Styles for his leadership, and thank you all for your cooperation." Ward announces.

My whole body is tense. I'm waiting for the fallout - the revelations. But they don't come. Styles nods in response. Professional. Cold. He keeps his mouth shut about the praise, but more importantly he keeps his mouth shut about me. 

Ward shakes Styles' hand, before he leaves. Styles turns back to address us. 

"Thanks for your work today. Get your uniforms cleaned and ready for reassessment first thing tomorrow. Debrief folders will be on your beds by nineteen hundred. Dismissed." 

His voice is neutral, no enthusiasm. But I know that's his version of praise. I also know, with absolute certainty, that none of that praise is intended for me. 

He shakes a few hands as the soldiers begin to file out of the room. Rivers, Hale, McKenzie, Jefferies. Until it's only me left. 

I step forward slightly, awkward and unsure of what to do. He doesn't even look at me, doesn't acknowledge me at all. 

The rejection stings, and I know I should keep walking. It's too fresh. He's still angry. But part of me can't bear to know he feels that way. 

"I'm sorr-" I begin.

"Don't," he cuts me off. That one word hits like a slap. 

"I didn't mean to-" I try again.

"Didn't mean to what? Didn't mean to disobey my orders? Didn't mean to chit-chat with our fucking target? Didn't mean to put us all in danger? Because those things are all choices, so yes Holton, you did mean to." His voice is fuelled with hostility. 

"You don't think I know I messed up?" I question helplessly. 

"I think you're waiting for me to tell you it's okay. I'm not going to," he says bluntly. He starts shuffling papers, a deliberate dismissal. Like I'm not worth the breath anymore.

"I'm sorry," I say again, quieter this time. There are tears in my eyes. 

"What if I hadn't been there?" he says sharply, finally looking at me.

I don't answer.

"You went rogue on my orders," he continues, "with a loaded weapon. In a live combat zone. Do you understand how dangerous that makes you?"

"You didn't tell anyone," is all I can think to say. 

He scoffs. 

"I covered for you so the others wouldn't stop trusting you. Or each other. That's the only reason. Because out there, one break in the chain, and the whole fucking thing snaps. And they'd stop following orders. They'd second-guess you."

"She said something," I blurt out. "The prisoner. Before you took her," I continue, my voice dropping so not to be overheard, "she said I was on the wrong team."

Styles freezes. It's subtle, but it's there. His eyes narrow, jaw tightens.

"And your going to listen to her, are you?" he asks, mocking.

"She was calm. Too calm. She seemed so sure of what she was saying," I try to plead my case.

"She was playing you. She's married to one of the brains of Southside. She knows the right things to say to the right people. That's what they do. You need to be more switched on." He shuts me down.

"But-" I try

"No," his voice turns sharp. Final. "You think you're immune to manipulation because you wear this uniform? Because you've been trained?" He steps closer. "You're exactly who they'd try to crack. She clocked that - and she used it. Simple as that." 

Styles has been harsh before. Hurt my feelings on more than one occasion. But he's never made me feel stupid. Until now.

"I'm trying," is all I can get out, as the tears threaten to spill over. I fight them back.

Something flickers across his face momentarily. He looks pained. But as quick as I notice it, it's gone. 

"Try harder." He turns away again, grabbing the last folder off the table and snapping it shut. He doesn't look back as he leaves the room.

And now, the tears are falling. 

_____________

I spent longer than I care to admit locked in a toilet cubicle crying my eyes out after leaving the briefing room. I don't even try to stop myself. I haven't cried since I was ripped from my home and thrust into a warzone. I think I'm owed this one. 

When the occasional soldier enters the bathroom I hold a hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs. Nobody hears me. Or they do, and they just don't care. 

After a while, when no one had entered in some time, I realised I was probably missing dinner. 

I force myself to stop the tears, and exit the cubicle. I grimace before forcing myself to look in the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy. I splash my face with cold water, hoping to make it less noticeable, before taking myself off to the mess. 

The mess hall is loud as usual. People still buzzing from the mission — laughing, reliving the action, clattering cutlery and half-yelling across tables.

I keep my head down and grab a tray. 

I look around for a seat, but the tables are crammed. Jefferies spots me, raises a hand like he's about to call out—but someone cuts in front of him in the conversation, and the moment passes. I try not to dwell on it, but I think that was deliberate.

I find a gap at the very end of a table near the back, sliding into the seat quietly. It's not a snub, not quite, but I feel it all the same.

A few minutes later, Styles walks in.

Conversation dips—just slightly—as he crosses the room. He always commands that kind of quiet. Not from fear, but from authority.

He moves from table to table, checking in with small nods, the occasional comment. Hollow praise and perfunctory words. I doesn't expect him to come near me.

He doesn't.

He doesn't look at me. But as he passes behind me to collect his food, there's the faintest brush of his fingers against my shoulder. Barely a touch—so brief I could convince myself I imagined it, I could convince myself it was accidental. But I don't think it was. 

He saw me sitting alone. And that was his way of saying: I saw. And I don't want you thinking no one did.

I don't turn around. I don't even flinch. But the touch lingers long after he's gone. It burns like guilt. Like forgiveness I haven't earned.

______________

The rest of dinner passes in a blur. I barely eat. Mostly push food around my plate until it's no longer socially acceptable to keep sitting there. Then I leave my tray at the station and slip out before anyone can stop me—or worse, pretend not to see me again.

When I finally get to the dorm, the lights are dimmed and a few of the bunks already claimed. On my pillow, the debrief folder awaits me. 

The folder contains the standard paperwork. Write up of the mission, any relevant intel we need to know going forward. At the back I find a post-mission reflection sheet. Nothing unusual — I had read about this in my induction file. 

Except for the single, deliberate line, underlined in red ink:

What would you do differently next time?

That's it. No instruction. Just that. A simple prompt that suddenly doesn't feel so simple.

I stare at it, at the underline. The loop of the pen, the slight pressure on the downstrokes. It's all him. 

It hits harder than any lecture. This isn't forgiveness. This isn't a lifeline.

This is a command: get your shit together. Come back from this. Because you have to.

I read the question again. What would you do differently next time?

I flip the paper over, almost hoping there's more — a note, anything. But it's blank. And yet, somehow, it says more than if he'd written an entire paragraph.

He's still angry. But he still wants me to learn. He hasn't given up on me. Not yet.