The old man looked up slowly, eyes pale and calm, the kind of gray that carried more memory than emotion, and for a moment he simply studied Rhodes as if measuring not rank but temperament. Then, without a word, he reached into his jacket and produced a thin credential card.
Rhodes took it, frowning.
The clearance stripe was gold, but not the kind used anymore, and the designation—ORION-BLACK / LEVEL NULL—was something he had never seen, not in briefings, not in doctrine, not even in the half-whispered rumors that floated around classified corridors.
“This credential is obsolete,” Rhodes said, already irritated, already embarrassed that the situation hadn’t resolved itself immediately. “You shouldn’t be here. Finish what you’re doing and leave.”
The old man smiled faintly, not in defiance, not in mockery, but with the gentle patience of someone who had lived long enough to stop being rushed by other people’s tempers.
“I would prefer to finish my soup first,” he said quietly, his voice steady but unassuming, “if that’s acceptable.”
A subtle stillness rippled outward.
Rhodes felt it and misread it, mistaking warning for submission, because power, when misunderstood, often convinces itself it is unquestionable.
“You don’t negotiate with me,” Rhodes snapped, and before anyone could intervene, before instinct could override decorum, he reached forward and knocked the bowl from the table.
The soup splashed across the floor, steam rising, ceramic shattering.
