Dallas Fontaine stands in the booking area with the logs on the terminal still open. The authorization ID points straight at Miller's private office. Jackson Temple angles himself by the door, blocking the hall without saying a word.

Inside, the oak door stays shut, polished and heavy, but the truth is already pressed against it. Dallas moves forward, and the room beyond feels smaller for it.

Miller does not rise. He keeps one hand on the files, like paperwork can still shield him from what the logs say. Jackson's jaw tightens at the threshold.

Dallas sets the printed authorization trail on the desk. The office lamp throws the name, the route, and Miller's own terminal match into a bright, ugly line between them. The confrontation is no longer a question, it is a door opening toward the end of the Harbor Unit's cover-up, and toward Dallas's first clean day off.

Dallas slides the authorization trail across the desk until it sits beneath Miller’s hand. The paper stops dead under the lamp, the match between log and office terminal impossible to ignore.

Miller’s fingers lift off the file stack. His eyes move once over the printout, then away from it, as if looking longer might make the line on the page worse.

Miller exhales through his nose and leans back, not relieved, just cornered into honesty. The office feels quieter for it, like even the lamp is waiting.

He taps the paper once, then once more, stopping just short of the route slip and the specific clerk’s signature Dallas has already pinned to the chain. The confession lands, but not cleanly.