Ravik sat on the edge of his cot. The communicator sat on the desk across the room. His uniform was rumpled, his gloves tossed carelessly onto the floor, the adrenaline of the mission still faintly pulsing in his veins. The Revenant’s systems hummed low, constant. The buzz pressed in, a reminder of what he’d just walked out of.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The smirk from the War Room was gone. His chest tightened. He didn’t know why.

The zone. He had scoffed at it, dismissed it as just another stage for him to prove himself. And he had—of course, he had. But it wasn’t the mission. The noise, the shouts, the collapse... that’s what stuck.

And the bodies. The guards he hadn’t even seen as individuals, just obstacles to remove. He hadn’t fired a shot, but he’d seen it. The aftermath. It counted.

He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. He had been so eager to dismiss this assignment as beneath him, a consolation prize for not landing on the Dominus. Now, alone in the quiet, the truth pressed in.

Not a consolation prize. Just war.

And he had walked into it thinking he could treat it like just another game, another place to show off.

You’re the youngest Vanguard in history, he thought bitterly, a small part of him still clinging to that achievement. But even that didn’t feel as satisfying as it had before. What did it matter if he didn’t know how to carry the weight of it?

The communicator chirped, its sudden noise cutting through the stillness and making Ravik’s head snap up. His heart skipped, a tension settling in his chest as he rose and walked to the desk.

The screen flickered to life, and there was no mistaking the voice that filled the cabin.

“Captain Ravik.”

Zarion’s voice was deep, smooth, and deliberate, every syllable curling around him like smoke. There was no image, only the faint ripple of encrypted signals on the screen. It didn’t matter. Zarion didn’t need to be seen to be felt.

Ravik straightened instinctively, his breath catching for a moment before he forced his voice steady. “Commander.”

There was a brief pause, as if Zarion were letting the silence stretch, evaluating him through the connection.

“I’ve been watching,” Zarion said finally, his tone even but carrying the weight of unspoken judgment. “Your performance in the zone was… adequate.”

His jaw locked. Of course Zarion chose that word.

“But I don’t need adequacy,” Zarion continued, his voice dropping slightly, drawing Ravik in despite himself. “I need precision. Control. Understanding. Did you learn anything out there, Captain? Or are you still too busy congratulating yourself to see the bigger picture?”

Ravik’s fists clenched at his sides, but he swallowed his retort. “I handled my role,” he said, his voice clipped. “We succeeded.”

“Oh, yes, you handled your role,” Zarion said, almost lazily. “But did you feel it? Did you understand the cost of what you’ve been given? Or are you still just a boy playing soldier, hoping to impress someone who matters?”

Zarion's tone slipped past the walls Ravik didn’t know were still up.

“I—” Ravik began, but Zarion interrupted him, his voice softer now, almost coaxing.

“Do you know what sets a Vanguard apart, Captain?” Zarion asked, the question hanging in the air like a trap.

Ravik hesitated. “Skill,” he said finally. “Dedication. Strength.”

A low chuckle came through the connection, quiet and knowing. “Those are tools,” Zarion said. “Useful, yes, but they mean nothing without purpose. A Vanguard doesn’t just complete missions. They shape the course of the Empire. They bear its weight, its secrets, its complexities.”

His throat caught. He hadn’t thought of it like that... not really.

“You’ve been chosen, Captain,” Zarion said, his tone turning colder. “Not for your ambition. Not for your arrogance. But because you have the potential to become something greater. If you want to survive in the zone, you’ll need to decide whether you’re willing to rise to that challenge—or be crushed by it.”

The line went silent for a moment, and Ravik felt the weight of Zarion’s words settle into his chest.

“Remember this,” Zarion said finally, his voice soft again, almost intimate. “War doesn’t care about you, Ravik. But I…” He paused. Exhaled. “Don’t disappoint me.”

The connection ended abruptly, leaving Ravik standing there, the faint hum of the ship filling the void.

He let out a slow breath, hands gripping the edge of the desk. His chest pulled tight. Emotions churned. Anger, frustration, fear... and something else.

Zarion’s voice lingered. Heavy. Tight. Unshakable. It wasn’t just the words. It was the way Zarion spoke to him, the way he seemed to see through him, peeling back the layers Ravik had spent years building.

He hated it.

And yet, beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, there was something else; a pull, a desire to prove himself, not just to the team, but to Zarion.

Why does it feel like he… cares?

Ravik exhaled sharply, straightening and running a hand through his hair.

“Fine,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. “You want me to rise to the challenge? Watch me.”

But the whisper of doubt stayed.

Don’t disappoint me.