As the tension in the terminal reached a crescendo, General Caldwell finally moved. His presence was a silent storm gathering force, and with a controlled, authoritative voice, he said, “I think it’s time you pick that up, Officer.”

Lawson turned slowly, the smirk faltering on his lips as he met Caldwell’s unwavering gaze. In that moment, he realized the magnitude of his mistake. The air seemed to thicken with the gravity of Caldwell’s rank and presence. The crowd, which had been an indifferent blur moments before, now watched with subdued anticipation.

“Who do you think you are?” Lawson blustered, his bravado shrinking with each word.

“General Raymond T. Caldwell,” came the quiet, lethal reply. The name echoed in the terminal like a thunderclap. Around them, murmurs swept through the crowd, and the phones that had been recording shifted focus to the unfolding confrontation.

Lawson’s face drained of color as he processed the revelation. The General wasn’t just a figure of authority; he was a legend. Lawson’s bravado crumbled like sand under a wave.

“Officer Lawson,” Caldwell continued, his voice carrying the weight of years of command, “you seem to have forgotten the values that your uniform represents. Respect. Honor. Duty. It is not a costume. It is a commitment to serve and protect, not to belittle and degrade.”

Lawson opened his mouth to speak, but Caldwell cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Enough. You will apologize to Staff Sergeant Griffin and return his ID immediately.”

The crowd watched, hushed and expectant, as Lawson stooped to retrieve the ID, his movements slow and weighted with shame. He handed it back to Aaron, who took it with a nod, his face a mixture of gratitude and fatigue.