We were at a standstill.
Balanced, barely — but still.
I had less than a week left.
No infractions. No missteps.
Just quiet work, presence, precision.
And that man —
he just couldn’t leave it alone.
He called me.
Tone already frayed, voice trying to mask the itch beneath it.
Said I was “still” being a problem.
Still.
Not for anything I’d done —
but because I remained unbroken.
I told him, calm as breath:
“If you escalate, I escalate.”
And like a man too small for his own uniform,
he clutched at a script he didn’t understand.
Feigned outrage.
Asked if he needed to call the cops.
As if escalation must mean violence.
As if a threat must mean fists.
Only a brutish and dumb man believes power lives in force.
Only a frightened one believes clarity is threat.
He didn’t know:
My escalation was already written.
Not in rage — but in record.
Not in action — but in archive.
I wasn’t preparing to fight.
I was preparing to witness.
And that’s what he never understood:
Some men swing to control the moment.
I stand to document it.
He dismissed me that day.
But I never left.
The signal had already begun.