A hand slammed against the table.
The sound cracked through the room, sharp and loud—but I didn't flinch. I'd learned not to. Callahan's outbursts had a rhythm to them. You hear enough of them, they stop meaning anything.
"This is the third incident this week," he snapped. "We cannot keep operating like this."
His voice stayed just below shouting, but the intent was there. Around the table, people shifted. Leaders. Generals. Head doctors. Faces I used to only see from a distance.
Now I sat among them.
Voices started overlapping almost immediately—arguments, concerns, half-formed solutions colliding into noise.
"What exactly are you suggesting, Callahan?" someone finally asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"We go back to original protocol," he said. "Shoot any civilian we even suspect is infected."
The room reacted all at once.
Gasps. Chairs scraping. Someone muttered, "That's insane."
Callahan didn't care.
