The performance had begun.
On the afternoon of Brock Rumlow's arrival, the first order reached Lin Xiao's office.
The order came through the base's encrypted internal line, terse to the point of cruelty: "Retrieve all mission reports, operational logs, supply requisition records, and member training evaluation results from Major Lin Xiao's independent action team since its establishment. Conference Room One, 3:00 p.m. Have everything ready."
Lin Xiao looked at the line on the terminal screen, his fingertips lightly tapping the desk. The snow had stopped outside, but the sky remained gloomy, lead-gray clouds hanging low enough to make breathing feel difficult. He pressed the communicator. "Su Ying, notify everyone. Have all the materials organized and delivered to the conference room before three. Remember, use the version we prepared."
"Understood." Su Ying's voice came through the receiver, calm and steady.
Lin Xiao rose and walked to the window. On the training grounds, soldiers were carrying out routine drills, their breath rapidly dispersing into the cold wind. Far away, the curtains of the window on the third floor of the officers' dormitory remained tightly drawn, but he could feel that a pair of eyes there was observing the operation of the entire base.
2:50 p.m.
Conference Room One was at least three degrees colder than the corridor. The heating system seemed to have malfunctioned, but it was more likely that someone had deliberately lowered the temperature—cold kept people alert and made tension more palpable. Twelve file boxes had been neatly arranged on the long conference table, each with a label in handwriting so tidy it looked printed.
Lin Xiao stood by the table, with Su Ying and three other core members behind him. Everyone wore formal winter uniforms, their epaulets polished bright, their posture ramrod straight. The air smelled of paper ink,