“Your high school achievements, your West Point appointment, your rapid promotions at the Pentagon,” she said.

“You think you earned those on merit alone?” Mara asked.

“I worked twenty hours a day,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “I bled for my commission.”

“You did,” Mara said. “But the deck was stacked from the beginning.”

“They needed you in that specific position in the Army,” she said.

“Why?” I asked, a cold dread settling in my stomach.

“Project Cadence,” Mara said. “It wasn’t just a research initiative.”

“It was a psychological conditioning program,” she said. “And you were the primary subject.”

I stared at her, the words hanging in the damp air of the cabin.

Before I could speak, a sharp vibration rattled the wooden table.

My father’s portable monitor screen flickered again.

The video loop of his face suddenly stopped.

A new text message icon began to flash in the upper right corner of the screen.

The device was not just a player; it was connected to an active satellite network.

The sender ID read: *CAROLINE*.

My mother.

The message opened automatically on the screen.