The atmosphere inside the grand assembly hall of Westbrook Military Base was a powder keg waiting for a spark. Rows of 19 to 23-year-old cadets stood shoulder to shoulder in disciplined silence. Yet under their composure, Kiaan sensed something deeper—unspoken truths lurking behind firm jawlines and guarded expressions.
The air was thick with confusion, tension, and the faint scent of fear.
Kiaan stepped forward again, eyes sharp, his voice calm yet cutting like a surgical blade.
"I'm going to ask this once," he said, his voice echoing off the sterile white walls and bouncing into every ear. "If any of you—even one of you—saw something that day. Something strange. Something you've been told to forget... I don't want you to raise your hand. I don't want you to speak up. Just... lick your upper lip. That's it."
The room stilled.
The silence turned electric.
"You think I'm joking," he continued. "But I'm not here to play by protocol. You're soldiers. I know how you're trained. Some of you are scared. Some of you have been threatened. But I promise you this—whoever did this is watching, and staying quiet won't keep you safe."
He took a deliberate step back and gestured discreetly behind him.
"Rehaan," he said, without even looking. "Watch."
Rehaan, standing behind a pillar with a perfect diagonal view of the audience, sharpened his gaze. He had already tuned out everything but movement and micro-expression. His sharp mind was trained for this—scanning faces for the smallest reaction.
Seconds ticked by.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then—subtle flicks.
Three cadets. Not standing close to each other.
One wiped sweat from his brow—his tongue briefly grazing his upper lip.
Another blinked twice, pretending to scratch his nose—but the gesture lingered on his mouth.
The third, more confident, casually shifted and let his tongue sweep across his upper lip like he had an itch.
Rehaan's eyes narrowed.
"Got them," he muttered under his breath, memorizing their faces and body positions.
Kiaan glanced at him just once and nodded slightly. He had already anticipated this.
"Now..." Kiaan said slowly, walking back up to the center of the platform, "...those who stayed silent—thank you. Those who reacted—thank you even more. We'll speak privately. And don't worry—we're not here to punish. We're here to protect."
He paused.
"Because the next body might not end up in a distant alley or a greenhouse—it might land right here on your base. You're not invisible. But neither are we."
The cadets began to stir. The tension was now transformed into a mix of paranoia and pressure. Some exchanged worried glances, while others tried too hard not to look at anyone at all.
Zid stepped closer to Kiaan and whispered, "Nice move. That tongue trick was psychological jiu-jitsu."
Kiaan smirked faintly. "Only those with something to hide would hesitate—or signal."
Rehaan tapped his notepad. "Three licks. They talk next."
And as Kiaan turned to walk off the platform, a glint of steel resolve burned in his eyes. The game had begun—not with noise, not with confrontation—but with a silent signal only guilt could trigger.