A collective breath was held.
The old man stood, not hurriedly, not shakily, but with deliberate ease, as though every movement had been practiced over decades. He looked down at the broken bowl, then back at Rhodes.
“Touch my bowl again, Admiral,” he said softly, the calm in his voice more unsettling than anger, “and I’ll remind you why they once called me Lazarus.”
The name fell into the room like a dropped weapon.
Some froze mid-motion. Others straightened instinctively. One Master Chief closed his eyes.
Rhodes laughed, sharp and dismissive. “That’s enough. Sit down.”
The old man did not.
“My name,” he continued, still gentle, “is Elliot Kane.”
Silence deepened.
Because Elliot Kane was not a name spoken lightly.
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