Mark POV
"You're doing the thing again," Max said, sliding into the seat across from me at the ops room's ancient break table. "The staring-at-nothing thing."
"I don't have a staring-at-nothing thing."
"You've had the same cup of coffee in front of you for forty minutes. It's gone cold twice. You reheated it once and didn't drink it either time."
"I'm processing."
"Processing what?"
I turned the mug slowly, not drinking it a third time either. "Command offered me a transfer. Training division. Off the front line entirely."
Max's eyebrows went up. "That's a real offer? Not just a courtesy after the casualty numbers?"
"Real offer. Full pension track, no more collapsing psychic dimensions, no more waking up wondering if today's the day my poor life choices finally catch up with me permanently." I set the mug down. "I've got the paperwork sitting in my inbox. All I have to do is sign it."
"You haven't signed it."
"No."
"Why not?"
