Mercer did not strike at the center.
That would have been inefficient.
He struck at the seam.
The first sign was absence.
Mika did not report for morning briefing.
At first, no one reacted. Absences happened. Fatigue, reassignment, paperwork delays. Johnson noted it mentally, nothing more. He had trained himself not to overreact—that was precisely the behavior Mercer wanted to induce.
But by midday, patterns aligned too cleanly.
Mika's access logs showed normal activity. Her credentials had been used. Her terminal recorded inputs. Messages were sent in her tone, with her cadence, her habitual brevity.
Too perfect.
Johnson stood behind her empty desk, hands resting on the edge, eyes fixed on the screen.
"She didn't write this," he said calmly.
Hana looked up sharply. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
The silver-haired girl approached, scanning the logs. "The syntax is right. The timing is right."
Johnson nodded. "Which means it's a construction. Not communication."
The room cooled perceptibly.
"She was targeted," Hana said.
"Not abducted," Johnson replied. "Isolated."
They found her that evening.
Not restrained. Not injured.
Waiting.
Mika sat alone in a repurposed observation room near the old disciplinary wing—one of the academy's forgotten spaces. The door was unlocked. No guards. No cameras.
A message without force.
Johnson entered alone.
Mika looked up, her expression controlled but strained. "You shouldn't be here by yourself."
"That was the point," he answered.
She stood slowly. "He contacted me three days ago."
Johnson did not interrupt.
"He never threatened me," she continued. "He explained me. My habits. My limits. The pressure points I didn't know I had." Her jaw tightened. "He told me I was predictable."
"Was he wrong?" Johnson asked.
Mika hesitated.
"That's the problem," she admitted. "He wasn't."
She met Johnson's gaze, something raw breaking through her composure. "He said I was the emotional stabilizer. That if I cracked—or even hesitated—you would overcorrect."
Johnson absorbed that without visible reaction.
"He offered me a choice," she said quietly. "Not cooperation. Distance. Step back voluntarily. Create uncertainty without betrayal."
"A controlled fracture," Johnson said.
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"And what did you decide?" he asked.
Mika exhaled slowly. "I didn't answer him."
"That was still an answer," Johnson replied.
She frowned. "You're not angry?"
"No," he said. "I'm evaluating."
Mika's shoulders tensed. "He wanted me to believe I mattered only as a variable. That I was useful because I was fragile."
Johnson stepped closer—not invading her space, but grounding it.
"He chose you because you're stable," he said. "And because you care. That combination creates leverage—but only if you mistake it for weakness."
Her eyes flickered.
"I won't remove you from your position," Johnson continued. "That's what he expects."
"What if he escalates?" she asked.
"Then he reveals himself," Johnson said. "Mercer only wins while he remains theoretical."
Mika nodded slowly, resolve re-forming. "He said this was just the beginning."
Johnson turned toward the door. "He's correct."
As they left the room together, Johnson understood the true nature of Mercer's strategy.
This was no longer about winning control.
It was about forcing Johnson to choose between efficiency and loyalty—again and again—until one of them failed.
That night, a second message arrived.
Shorter this time.
You protected her. Good. Now you know the cost.
Johnson deleted it without hesitation.
You've misunderstood, he thought.
I don't protect my people because it's costly.
I protect them because it removes your options.
The board was no longer abstract.
And Mercer had just placed himself within reach.