My family left no chair for me at my brother’s welcome-home dinner. Dad raised his glass and said, “Some people are born to command.” He never looked at me. To them, I was the daughter who quit military academy and disappeared. So I stayed quiet. Until the next morning, a drill sergeant saw me on my brother’s training base, snapped into a salute, and said one word that made his rifle hit the dirt: “General.”

That bothered me.

Professionals don’t chase. They wait to see what matters.

At my car, the air smelled of rubber, dust, and something sharper.

Ozone.

Fresh electronics.

I checked under the wheel well. Nothing obvious. No sloppy tracker. No wire.

That made it worse.

I slid in through the passenger side and started the engine. A tiny click sounded under the dash.

Not a bomb.

A listener.

“You’re late,” I said to the empty car.