The air in the debriefing room was thick enough to chew. Seraph stood like a statue of living steel between Jonah and Colonel Boris, her hand a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of her sword. Boris's cold eyes narrowed, a flash of pure anger breaking through her carefully controlled mask.
"Sergeant," Boris said, her voice dangerously soft. "You are making a grave mistake. That… *asset*… is a matter of national security."
"He is *my* asset," Seraph countered, her voice low and just as dangerous. "And my team's survival comes first. You and your Bureau can file a complaint. I'm sure it will be reviewed in a few years."
A muscle in Colonel Boris's jaw twitched. This was a challenge to her authority, and she knew it.
"The Bureau does not *file complaints*," she hissed. "We act."
Jonah felt like a bone being fought over by two starving wolves. They weren't talking about the Broodmother's essence anymore; they were talking about him. They saw him as a thing, a resource.
