"Hey—…hey! Can you wait up, please?"
My boots slapped against the gravel as I caught up to the soldier who'd escorted us to the quarters. He didn't slow, didn't turn—just kept walking like he hadn't heard me at all.
I matched his pace.
"Sir," I said, breath steady, "I just had a question."
That finally did it.
He stopped.
Turned.
His eyes flicked over me—not hostile. Not angry. Assessing. Like he was measuring how much time I was worth.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I wanted to know who I should talk to about getting our guns back," I said. "They were confiscated at the gate, but they're ours. We can—"
"Not my department."
The words landed flat. Final.
I frowned. "Okay. Then whose is it?"
He studied me for a second longer than necessary. Then he sighed, like I'd just made his day slightly more annoying.
"Weapons intake is handled by Command," he said. "If they want to speak to you, they'll let you know."
"And if they don't?" I asked.
A pause.
"That's your answer."
