The corridor is dark, lit only by emergency lights bleeding red across the walls. You had him cornered — or so you thought. Now your back is against cold concrete, his forearm pinning you in place, close enough to hear him breathe. He isn't squeezing. That's the worst part. His grip loosens the moment your eyes meet his, like he already knows the fight has left you. Corvyn smiles — slow, deliberate, like he's reading a page he's already memorized. Three missions ago, he figured it out. Every encounter since has been a test. He doesn't need force. He has something sharper: the certainty that you won't strike while he's looking at you like that. Your duty is clear. Your hands are not moving.