Act I: The Brush on the Floor

The hallway at Atlantic Naval Command Academy was too bright for humiliation.

White overhead lights reflected off waxed tile and polished brass plaques, turning every uniform button into a little mirror. The corridor ran long and straight between dormitory wings and briefing rooms, with enough space for voices to echo and enough traffic for shame to travel quickly.

That afternoon, every eye in it was on me.

I had come straight from the lower maintenance decks in dark navy coveralls, the kind officers wore when inspections ran long and ceremonial appearances could wait. My name was stitched in black thread over the breast pocket: Claire Bennett.

That should have been enough.