Marcus returned twenty minutes later, a thick black file tucked under his arm. His expression was grim as he handed it over, no words exchanged between us. None were needed.
I sat down in the cold steel chair and opened the folder.
Pages flipped. Reports, logs, images. Assignments Damon had carried out with surgical precision. His kill ratio. His commendations. There was nothing obviously suspicious—on paper, he had been perfect. Almost too perfect.
But then I noticed something.
In the back section was a set of personal visitation logs—entries from times Damon had checked out of missions or taken short leaves. Most were random cities, nothing unusual. But one date kept reappearing like a whisper in the shadows.
June 16th.
Every year, without fail, Damon took leave on June 16th.
And
