The admiral’s expression had settled back into discipline, but his hands betrayed him. Two fingers tapped once against his thigh. Then once again. Then stopped when he noticed her noticing.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “I’m correcting one.”

The first formal statement took place twenty-three minutes later, in a side office off the corridor. Beige walls. Burnt coffee. A small American flag standing on the corner of the desk beside a stack of intake forms.

Aria gave her statement slowly. She used times, not feelings. Process, not outrage.

She described the schedule change. The missing duty clerk. Harlow’s position, his words, the shove, the laughter, the defensive strike. She identified the recorder.