Part 1
The coffee maker in the Pentagon’s third-floor breakroom had been broken for three days. It hissed and sputtered, a mechanical death rattle that produced a sludge more akin to engine oil than anything drinkable.
Lieutenant Commander Sarah Martinez stood in front of it, arms crossed, contemplating whether the caffeine was worth the gastrointestinal risk. She was dressed in civilian clothes: dark jeans, a simple navy blazer over a white t-shirt, and comfortable boots. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a functional ponytail. To the casual observer, she looked like an intern, a contractor, or perhaps a tourist who had wandered past security.
Major Bradley Hawkins pushed through the breakroom door with the force of a man who believed every room was waiting for his arrival. Twenty-two years in the Army had given him broad shoulders, a chest full of ribbons, and an ego that required its own zip code. He was loud, he was confident, and he was currently very thirsty.
He barely glanced at Sarah as he beelined for the coffee machine. When he saw her standing there, blocking his path to the caffeine, he flashed a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.
“Sweetheart, could you step aside? Some of us actually have work to do.”
Sarah turned slowly. Her green eyes met his with a cool, detached appraisal. She didn’t blink. She didn’t apologize. She simply moved two precise steps to the left, creating exactly enough space for him to pass.
“Thank you,” Hawkins said, his tone dripping with condescension. He grabbed a mug, filled it with the sludge, and took a sip. He grimaced. “Ugh. Tastes like it was filtered through a boot.”
He looked at Sarah again, really taking her in this time. Civilian clothes. No badge visible. Young. Female. His mental calculator summed her up in seconds: Administrative assistant. Lost. Irrelevant.
“You new around here, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning against the counter. “You look a little lost.”
Sarah poured herself a cup, black. She took a sip without flinching. “I know exactly where I am,” she said quietly.
Her voice was calm. It wasn’t the nervous flutter of an intern. It was the steady, level tone of someone who had negotiated with warlords and briefed the Joint Chiefs. But Hawkins wasn’t listening to the tone; he was only hearing the gender.
“Well then, maybe you can tell me where the real coffee is,” Hawkins laughed, pleased with his own wit. “Because this swill is a war crime.”
Two Army Captains, Rodriguez and Chen, entered the breakroom. They stopped talking immediately when they saw Hawkins looming over the woman. They exchanged a look—the universal junior officer signal for ‘Oh no, the Major is doing it again.’
“The real coffee,” Sarah said, meeting Hawkins’ gaze directly, “is in the Colonel’s office. But I doubt you have clearance for that meeting.”
Hawkins laughed harder. The sound was sharp, grating. “Clearance? Sweetheart, I have been in uniform since before you were born. I have clearance for meetings that would make your pretty little head spin.”
Captain Chen took a half-step forward, recognizing something in Sarah’s stance. She stood with her weight evenly distributed, her hands free. It was a combat stance disguised as casual posture.
“I’m sure you do,” Sarah said.
“Maybe when you’ve been around here a little longer,” Hawkins continued, warming up to his lecture, “you’ll understand how things work. This isn’t some corporate office where everyone gets a participation trophy. This is the real military. We earn our keep.”
Sarah finished her coffee. She rinsed the mug in the sink with methodical precision. She dried her hands.
“Thank you for the advice,” she said. “I will keep it in mind.”
She moved toward the door. As she passed Hawkins, he called out, “And sweetheart? Next time, try dressing like you belong here. First impressions matter in this business.”
Sarah paused at the door. For a microsecond, her expression shifted. It wasn’t anger. It was amusement. Dark, cold amusement.
“I will remember that,” she said.
She walked out.
“Did you see how she handled that?” Captain Chen whispered to Rodriguez.
Hawkins snorted. “Handled what? I was just giving the girl some friendly advice. She’s probably some analyst’s assistant who thinks she’s hot stuff.”
In the hallway, Sarah Martinez checked her phone. A text from her commanding officer read: Briefing moved to 1400. The Secretary wants your assessment on the Syrian extraction protocols.
She smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
Day 2
The Pentagon is a city within a building. Miles of corridors. Thousands of people. But fate, or perhaps bad luck, has a way of shrinking the world.
Sarah was walking down the main E-Ring corridor, carrying a battered leather portfolio. Inside were classified satellite recon photos of a black site in Eastern Europe.
“Well, well. Look who’s wandering the halls again.”
Major Hawkins emerged from a side office, falling into step beside her. He looked pleased to see his “student.”
“Major,” Sarah said, not breaking stride.
“Lost again, sweetheart?” Hawkins teased. “I told you yesterday, get a map.”
“I know where I’m going.”
“Of course you do. Taking notes for the big boss? Fetching coffee?”
Sarah stopped. She turned to face him. The corridor was busy, officers and civilians streaming past.
“Something like that,” she said.
“Here’s some free advice,” Hawkins said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “In this building, respect is currency. And you’re broke. You want people to take you seriously? Stop walking around like a tourist. Show some deference to the people who have actually bled for this country.”
Sarah looked at him. She thought about the scar on her shoulder from a sniper’s bullet in Kandahar. She thought about the three years she spent deep cover in a place that didn’t exist on any map.
“I respect service,” she said. “Do you?”
“Excuse me?” Hawkins bristled. “I’ve served twenty-two years. I’ve led men in combat. What have you done, sweetheart? Organized a filing cabinet?”
“Experience is valuable,” she agreed, ignoring his question.
“Exactly. So maybe you should listen to it.”
She checked her watch. “I have to go. The ‘adults’ are waiting.”
She walked away before he could respond. Hawkins stared after her, shaking his head. “Some people just can’t be helped,” he muttered to a passing Colonel, who looked at him strangely.
Day 3
The briefing theater was packed. Two dozen senior officers—Colonels, Generals, Admirals—sat in tiered rows. The air was heavy with the scent of coffee and serious decisions.
Major Hawkins sat in the third row, feeling important. He was there to observe, hoping to catch the eye of a General for a promotion recommendation.
The door opened. Sarah walked in.
She was still in civilian clothes. She carried the same leather portfolio.
Hawkins stood up. He couldn’t help himself. He felt a duty to protect the sanctity of the briefing room.
“Excuse me, sweetheart,” he called out, his voice booming across the silent theater.
Every head turned. Admiral Chen, who was reviewing notes at the podium, looked up, his glasses flashing.
“I think you’re in the wrong room,” Hawkins said, smiling benevolently. “This is a classified briefing. Cleared personnel only. The intern seminar is down the hall.”
The room went deathly silent.
Sarah stopped. She looked at Hawkins. Then she looked at Admiral Chen.
“I am in the correct location,” she said calmly.
“Sweetheart, please,” Hawkins sighed, stepping into the aisle. “Don’t make this embarrassing. These men have clearances you can’t even imagine. This isn’t a place for tourists.”
Colonel Martinez, sitting in the front row, stood up. He looked furious.
“Major,” Martinez barked. “Sit down.”
“Sir, I’m just handling a security breach,” Hawkins explained, gesturing to Sarah. “This civilian is—”
“That civilian,” Sarah interrupted, her voice cutting through the air like a whip, “is the person giving the briefing.”
Hawkins froze. His smile faltered. “What?”
Sarah walked past him. She didn’t look at him. She walked straight to the podium. Admiral Chen stepped aside, nodding respectfully.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Sarah said. She opened her portfolio. “My name is Lieutenant Commander Sarah Martinez. Callsign: Phoenix Seven. I am the lead analyst for Joint Task Force Obsidian. And today, I’m going to tell you why your current extraction protocols in Sector 4 are going to get your men killed.”
Hawkins sank into his chair. His face went from red to white to a sickly shade of gray.
Lieutenant Commander. Phoenix Seven. Joint Task Force.
He had spent three days calling a special operations officer “sweetheart.” He had lectured a woman who hunted terrorists for a living on “real military service.”
Sarah looked up from her notes. Her green eyes scanned the room until they locked on Hawkins.
“But before we begin,” she said, her voice icy, “I’d like to address a security concern raised by the Major in the third row.”
She paused. The silence stretched, agonizing and absolute.
“He is correct,” Sarah said. “Experience matters. Judgment matters. And assumptions… assumptions get people killed.”
She held his gaze for one terrifying second longer.
“Major Hawkins,” she said. “You are dismissed.”
Part 2
Dưới đây là Part 2 của câu chuyện, được viết lại hoàn toàn và mở rộng đáng kể. Tôi đã phát triển sâu vào các chi tiết chiến thuật, tâm lý nhân vật và diễn biến kịch tính trong phòng họp cũng như cuộc đối đầu trong thang máy để đảm bảo độ dài và chiều sâu như một chương tiểu thuyết, đáp ứng yêu cầu của bạn.
—————BÀI VIẾT (PART 2)—————-
The command “You are dismissed” did not just hang in the sterile air of the Pentagon’s Briefing Theater 4; it detonated. It possessed the kind of concussive force that usually accompanies high-yield explosives, stripping the oxygen from the room and leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Major Bradley Hawkins did not move. He could not move. His brain, a machine usually oiled by confidence and the rigid structures of military hierarchy, was currently experiencing a catastrophic mechanical failure. The cognitive dissonance was tearing him apart at the seams. The woman he had labeled “intern,” “sweetheart,” and “tourist”—the woman he had spent three days publicly condescending to in the breakroom—was standing at the podium. And the stars on the shoulders of the men around him, men who commanded fleets and armies, were not looking at her with amusement. They were looking at her with deference.
“I… excuse me?” Hawkins stammered. His voice, usually a booming baritone that commanded drill fields, sounded thin and pathetic in the acoustic perfection of the secure room. He looked around, searching for an ally, for someone to share a smirk with, for someone to confirm that this was all some elaborate, administrative prank.
He found no allies.
Admiral Chen, the Vice Chief of Naval Operations, a man known for a patience that ran as deep as the Pacific and a temper that struck as suddenly as a typhoon, lowered his reading glasses. He looked over the rim at Hawkins. The look was not angry; it was something far worse. It was disappointed.
“Major,” Admiral Chen said, his voice calm and terrifyingly level. “Did you not hear the Commander? You are dismissed. Leave the briefing. Now.”
Hawkins blinked, his face flushing a deep, mottled red. His career flashed before his eyes—not in the poetic sense of a life review, but in the very literal sense of promotion boards, fitness reports, and future assignments evaporating like mist. He tried, desperately, to salvage the moment in real-time.
“But sir,” Hawkins said, taking a half-step into the aisle, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “With all due respect, my clearance… I am on the distribution list for the regional stability assessment. Colonel Stevens sent me to observe. I have a right to be here.”
Sarah Martinez did not look up from her tablet. She swiped a finger across the screen, bringing up a new file. The light from the podium cast sharp shadows across her face, highlighting the scar on her jaw that Hawkins had never noticed because he had never looked closely enough at her face to see the history written there.
“Your clearance is for standard operational data, Major,” Sarah interjected smoothly. Her voice cut through his protests like a scalpel through necrotic tissue. “You possess a Secret clearance with a need-to-know for logistics and support in Sector Three. This briefing, however, has just been upgraded to Top Secret / SCI / NOFORN / GAMMA.”
She finally looked up. Her green eyes locked onto his. There was no triumph in them, no gloating. Just the cold, hard calculation of an operator assessing a liability.
“Your access does not extend to the asset recovery operations we are about to discuss,” she continued. “Unless, of course, you were personally boots-on-ground in the Korangal Valley during Operation Black Sand in 2018? Or perhaps you were part of the extraction team that pulled the asset out of Yemen last spring under heavy mortar fire?”
Hawkins swallowed hard. The lump in his throat felt the size of a grenade. In 2018, he had been stationed at a comfortable desk in Wiesbaden, Germany, managing supply chain logistics for vehicle parts. He had never been to Yemen. He had never been under heavy mortar fire.
“No, ma’am,” he whispered. The honorific slipped out before he could stop it, a reflex of submission.
“Then you are a security liability,” Sarah stated. She turned her attention back to the Admiral. “Admiral Chen, we are burning daylight. Please have the room cleared of non-essential personnel so we can begin.”
“You heard her, Major,” Chen said. “Vacate the seat. You are wasting valuable time.”
Hawkins stood up. His legs felt numb, as if the blood flow had been cut off by the sheer weight of his embarrassment. He gathered his notepad, his pen, and the shattered remnants of his dignity. He began the long walk up the inclined aisle toward the double doors at the back of the theater.
It was the longest walk of his life.
He could feel the eyes of every superior officer drilling into his back. He could feel the heat radiating from his neck to his ears. He passed Captain Rodriguez and Captain Chen, the two junior officers who had witnessed his bullying in the breakroom. They did not look at him. They stared straight ahead, their faces carefully blank, but Hawkins knew. He knew they would be talking about this tonight. He knew the story of the Major who got evicted by the “intern” would be circulating through the E-Ring before lunch.
As his hand touched the cold brass of the door handle, Sarah’s voice stopped him one last time.
“And Major?”
Hawkins froze. He turned slowly, his hand still on the latch, praying for a reprieve. Maybe she would say it was a test. Maybe she would say he could stay if he signed a waiver. Anything to lessen the blow.
Sarah was looking at him. Her expression was unreadable.
“Try to dress like you belong here,” she said, repeating the exact words he had sneered at her three days ago. Her voice was flat, devoid of humor. “First impressions matter.”
The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed in his soul.
Inside the theater, the tension broke slightly as Colonel Martinez, who was sitting in the front row, let out a low whistle. He shook his head, a mixture of shock and admiration on his face.
“Phoenix Seven,” Martinez murmured. “I heard rumors you were back in the building. I didn’t believe them. I thought you were still deep cover in Damascus.”
“Rumors are leaks, Colonel,” Sarah said, her face unsmiling. “Let’s plug them. We have work to do.”
She tapped the console on the podium. The lights in the theater dimmed. The massive screen behind her flickered to life, displaying a high-resolution satellite image of a rugged, snow-capped mountain range.
“Gentlemen,” Sarah began, her voice shifting into the clipped, precise cadence of a briefing officer. “What you are looking at is the northern border of Sector Four. Specifically, the extraction route for Team Obsidian. As of 0600 hours this morning, this route is compromised.”
For the next two hours, Sarah Martinez dismantled the current military strategy for the Eastern European sector with the precision of a master watchmaker taking apart a timepiece. She did not use jargon to sound intelligent; she used it because it was her native tongue. She spoke of SIGINT (Signals Intelligence) intercepts, HUMINT (Human Intelligence) assets, and thermal signatures.
She pulled up satellite imagery that she herself had requested, bypassing the standard bureaucratic channels because she knew which satellites to task. She played audio intercepts of enemy comms that she had personally translated, her fluency in the local dialect apparent to everyone in the room.
“General Vance,” Sarah said, addressing a three-star General in the second row. “Your current plan relies on air support from the 48th Fighter Wing to suppress enemy anti-air capabilities in this valley. Is that correct?”
“It is, Commander,” General Vance replied, crossing his arms. “We have F-35s on standby. They can clear that ridge in five minutes.”
“They can’t,” Sarah said.
She tapped the screen. The image zoomed in on a cluster of trees near the valley floor.
“This imagery is six hours old,” she explained. “Standard recon missed it because they were looking for heat signatures of active engines. But if you look at the displacement of the snow here, and the pattern of the tire tracks…”
She highlighted a section of the image in red.
“…you will see that a mobile SA-21 Growler system has been moved into position under thermal camouflage nets. If you send F-35s into that valley, General, you are sending them into a kill box. The engagement radar is cold right now, waiting for a target. They will light up the moment your pilots cross the ridge line.”
General Vance leaned forward, squinting at the screen. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. He studied the image for a long minute. The room held its breath. Vance was known for his ego; he did not like being corrected.
Slowly, the General sat back. He took off his glasses. He looked at Sarah with a newfound respect.
“I missed that,” Vance admitted quietly. “My analysts missed that. How did you see it?”
“Because I’ve been on the ground in that valley, General,” Sarah said. “I know the terrain. I know where I would hide a SAM battery if I wanted to ambush an American air strike. And I know that the local commander favors that specific tree line for his ambushes.”
“So what is your recommendation, Phoenix?” Admiral Chen asked.
“If we proceed with the current plan,” Sarah concluded, pointing to the red zone on the map, “we lose the team. Guaranteed. We lose the pilots, and we lose the objective. My recommendation is a 48-hour delay. We reroute the extraction through the northern pass, here.”
She drew a new line on the map with her finger.
“It’s steeper terrain. It will be brutal on the operators. They will have to ruck an extra twelve miles in freezing conditions. But it puts the mountain between them and that SAM site. It neutralizes the air threat without firing a shot. And it brings them out in a sector where our assets on the ground can provide cover.”
She looked around the room. “It is the hard way. But it is the only way they come home alive.”
The room was silent. The Generals and Admirals looked at the map. They looked at the data. They looked at the woman in the civilian blazer who had just saved them from a catastrophic failure.
“Approved,” Admiral Chen said, nodding slowly. “Rewrite the OPORD (Operations Order). Reroute the team. Good catch, Commander. Damn good catch.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
The meeting adjourned. As the lights came up, the atmosphere in the room had shifted entirely. The officers filed out, but they didn’t rush. Many stopped to shake Sarah’s hand or nod respectfully. They knew who she was now. They knew Phoenix Seven wasn’t just an analyst; she was a legend in the clandestine service community. A woman who had survived things that broke stronger men.
Colonel Martinez stopped by the podium as Sarah began to pack her portfolio.
“That was brutal, what you did to Hawkins,” Martinez said, a slight smile playing on his lips.
“It was necessary,” Sarah said, snapping the lock on her briefcase. “He’s dangerous.”
Martinez frowned. “He’s arrogant, sure. An asshole, definitely. But dangerous? He’s a logistics guy.”
Sarah looked up. Her eyes were hard.
“Arrogance is the most dangerous thing in this building, Colonel,” she said. “A man who judges a book by its cover is a man who misses the IED hidden in the trash pile because it doesn’t look like a bomb. A man who assumes he’s the smartest person in the room stops listening. And when you stop listening in our line of work, people die.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder.
“He saw a woman in civilian clothes and assumed I was incompetent. What happens when he’s in the field and a local woman tries to warn him about an ambush? Does he listen? Or does he call her ‘sweetheart’ and drive his convoy straight into a kill zone?”
Martinez was silent. He absorbed the lesson. He nodded slowly. “Point taken, Commander. Point taken.”
Sarah left the briefing room. She walked down the long, polished corridor of the E-Ring. She felt drained. The adrenaline of the confrontation and the intensity of the briefing had faded, leaving behind the bone-deep exhaustion that came from living two lives—one in the shadows, and one in the light.
She needed to leave. She needed to get to the safe house, decrypt the new comms from the field team, and sleep for four hours before doing it all again.
She walked to the elevator bank. The doors opened, and she stepped in.
She pressed the button for the ground floor.
Before the doors could close, a hand shot out to stop them. The rubber bumper bounced back.
It was Major Hawkins.
He stepped into the elevator. He looked wrecked. His tie was loosened, the top button of his collar undone. His confident posture was gone, replaced by a slump of defeat. He looked at her, and for the first time in three days, there was no smirk. There was no condescension. There was just fear and confusion.
The doors closed, sealing them in a steel box. The elevator began its descent.
“Who are you?” Hawkins asked. His voice was devoid of bluster. It was a whisper.
Sarah didn’t look at him. She watched the floor numbers change on the digital display. 3… 2…
“I told you,” she said. “Lieutenant Commander Martinez.”
“No,” Hawkins said. He shook his head. “I looked you up. After I left the theater. I went to the secure terminal in the lobby. I ran your name.”
He turned to her, his eyes wide.
“Your file… it’s redacted. It’s not just restricted. It’s black ink everywhere. Service record, deployment history, current assignment. Even your photo is grayed out. It just says ‘See Special Access Program Omega.’ It’s all blacked out.”
He swallowed hard. “You don’t exist.”
Sarah turned her head slowly to look at him. “That’s the point, Major.”
“I… I didn’t know,” Hawkins stammered. “I thought… I just thought you were…”
“You thought I was weak,” Sarah said. Her voice was calm, but it filled the small space. “You thought I was less than you because I wasn’t wearing ribbons on my chest. You thought respect was something you wore, not something you did.”
She stepped closer to him. In the confined space, her presence was overwhelming. She wasn’t taller than him, but in that moment, she seemed to tower over him.
“Let me tell you about real service, Major. Real service isn’t about strutting around the Pentagon breakroom acting like a king because you have a rank on your collar. Real service is being invisible. It’s doing the job that no one will ever thank you for because no one is allowed to know you did it.”
She pointed to her civilian blazer.
“I wear these clothes because if I wear a uniform outside this building, I become a target. I have enemies, Major. Real ones. Not corporate rivals. People who want to kill me because of what I know. I don’t wear my rank because my rank doesn’t matter in the places I go. What matters is competence. What matters is the mission.”
Hawkins looked at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Sarah said. “Apologize to the mission. Apologize to the next ‘sweetheart’ you meet. Because she might be the trauma surgeon who saves your leg. She might be the pilot who flies you out of hell when the world is burning. Or she might be the only reason your intelligence is good enough to keep you alive for one more day.”
The elevator dinged. Ground floor.
The doors slid open. The bustle of the main lobby flooded in—the noise of tourists, the security guards, the hum of the military machine.
Sarah stepped out. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. She looked back at Hawkins one last time.
“And Major?”
He looked up, broken.
“Get the coffee machine fixed on the third floor. It’s embarrassing. If we can’t brew a decent cup of coffee, how can we expect to run a war?”
She walked away, melting into the crowd, an invisible woman in a navy blazer who held the weight of the world in her battered leather portfolio.
Hawkins stood in the elevator until the doors tried to close on him. He put his hand out to stop them, triggering the sensor again. He stepped out, dazed.
He walked to the security desk in the lobby.
“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asked.
“Yeah,” Hawkins mumbled. “Do you have the number for facilities maintenance? We need a coffee maker fixed on the third floor. It’s… it’s a priority.”
He watched the main doors where Sarah had exited. He realized he would never know what she had done, or where she had been, or what scars she carried under that blazer. But he knew one thing for sure.
He would never, ever call a woman “sweetheart” in this building again.
Epilogue: Six Months Later
The Pentagon breakroom on the third floor had a new coffee machine. It was a high-end, industrial Italian model that ground the beans fresh and brewed espresso with a perfect layer of crema. It was the kind of machine you found in a high-end cafe, not a government office.
Major Hawkins stood in front of it, waiting for his cup. He looked different. He had lost a little weight. He was quieter. He listened more in meetings. He checked his facts twice. He no longer assumed he was the smartest person in the room.
The door opened. A young woman walked in. She was wearing civilian clothes—jeans, a t-shirt, and a backpack. She looked young, maybe twenty-two. She looked lost.
She scanned the room, confused, clutching a piece of paper.
“Excuse me,” she said to Hawkins, her voice tentative. “I’m looking for the logistics office? I think I’m on the wrong floor.”
Hawkins turned. He looked at her.
Six months ago, he would have laughed. He would have made a comment about her outfit. He would have told her to get a map.
He didn’t see a girl. He didn’t see an intern. He saw a person who needed directions.
He didn’t smile his shark smile. He didn’t lean in.
“Logistics is down the hall, second door on the left,” he said politely. “It can be confusing. Do you have a map?”
“No,” she said. “I left it at security.”
“Here.” Hawkins pulled a folded visitor map from his pocket—he kept one on him now—and handed it to her. “Take this. And if you get turned around, just ask someone. We’re all on the same team.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling genuinely. “I appreciate it.”
She walked out.
Hawkins took his coffee. He took a sip. It was good. Strong. Real.
He walked to the window and looked out at the vast parking lot. It was raining. He saw a black government sedan pull up to the curb. A driver opened the back door with an umbrella.
A woman in a navy blazer got out. Sarah Martinez.
She looked older. Tired. She had a new scar on her cheek, faint and pink. She was talking on her phone, her face serious, her eyes scanning the perimeter. She walked toward the entrance, ignoring the rain, ignoring the tourists, moving with the silent, deadly grace of a predator.
She didn’t look up at the window. She didn’t know he was watching.
Hawkins raised his mug in a silent toast to the glass.
“Message received, Commander,” he whispered to the empty room. “Message received.”
He turned back to his work. There were logistics reports to file. There were supplies to move. It wasn’t glamorous work. It wasn’t special operations. But it was service. And for the first time in a long time, Major Bradley Hawkins understood that every part of the machine mattered, even the parts you couldn’t see.
