The locker room smelled like disinfectant and damp concrete. Rows of metal benches, half-open lockers, discarded gear stacked in bins waiting to be processed or burned.
Don stripped out of field-worn layers without, movements economical but tired, muscles complaining as he bent and straightened.
Another test to check for infected followed.
Quick. No explanations offered.
When it was done, they were handed new agency IDs—still warm from the printer—and a directive that landed wrong the moment it was spoken.
"You are not to return to HQ until further notice."
Starboy stared at the card in his hand like it might change if he looked long enough. "That doesn't make any sense."
Down the hall, raised voices echoed again, sharper now. Someone demanded answers. Someone else demanded the director.
Don didn't wait to hear the outcome.
