Commander Wright sat in his apartment, staring at casualty projections for the planned raid. 80-100 civilian deaths. Property damage: 5 million credits. Political fallout: severe. Probability of success: 92%. But success at what cost? His sister's words haunted him: 'Mom would be ashamed.' She was right. He'd become the boot crushing people like his mother. Like his sister. Like he'd been, once. The raid order sat on his desk. Unsigned. Waiting. He could execute it. Probably would. Orders were orders. But for the first time in thirty years, Wright questioned whether following orders was the same as doing right. The answer terrified him. Because if it wasn't—if he'd spent three decades enforcing oppression—what did that make him? He didn't sign the order. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Some lines, once crossed, couldn't be uncrossed. He was standing at one now. Trying to decide which side of history to be on.