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Maitra slammed the folder onto his desk, heart hammering in his chest. Sullivan… under investigation. What? No… that can’t be right.
He sank into the chair, gripping the armrests. The words on the report felt like a punch to the gut. He had reported Wilkinson. That was the right thing to do. He had been doing his duty, protecting the unit, following orders—and yet, somehow, his actions had spiraled out of control.
His thoughts raced. Sullivan? My friend? He’s… he’s being investigated? How? Why? Panic mixed with confusion. He had no idea Sullivan was involved with Wilkinson. That was… impossible. Sullivan wasn’t like that—or so he had thought.
Anger surged next, sharp and hot. Why does this happen to the right people? Why him? He imagined Sullivan sitting in an interrogation room, the same way he’d imagined Wilkinson facing the brass, and a cold pit opened in his stomach. The thought that his report—a step he had taken thinking he was protecting everyone—was now threatening Sullivan… it made his hands shake.
Maitra hated that he felt fear. He hated that a part of him—even a tiny, buried part—felt guilty. He’s my best friend. I… I didn’t mean this. But his mind recoiled from the truth he could not yet face: that Sullivan might be gay, too. That Sullivan might be involved with Wilkinson. That perhaps, in reporting Wilkinson, he had put his best friend in danger.
He stood abruptly, pacing the office. No. No, I did what had to be done. Rules are rules. Duty is duty. Yet, the more he repeated it, the less it sounded like justification and more like self-delusion.
Maitra’s chest tightened. Fear, confusion, and anger collided in him. He felt trapped between his rigid beliefs and the loyalty he still had for Sullivan, the friend he had fought beside, laughed with, and trusted. The consequences of his actions—unforeseen, unpredictable, irreversible—sank in.
For the first time, the neat lines of right and wrong blurred. And for the first time, Maitra wasn’t sure which side of them he stood on.