The recorder digs into my ribs where I’ve stuffed it under my jacket. It’s bulkier than it looks, clunky tech made for warzones, not espionage. The battery indicator flashes low—because of course it does—but it’s still humming quietly. Still listening.
I press my arm tightly against it, hoping to remain hidden. The guards around the makeshift holding area don’t notice. They’re too busy looking everywhere but at the civilians. Like if they don’t make eye contact, they don’t have to feel it.
The tarp flaps listlessly in the wind. The air reeks of sweat and old fear. I duck under the edge.
A child stares up at me, eyes wide, face smeared with ash and something that looks like blood but smells like soup. His hand grips a strip of torn cloth—maybe it used to be a toy. Maybe it’s all he has left. My stomach flips.
“Hey,” I whisper. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.”
A woman steps forward, her hair tangled in thick ropes, skin smudged with soot. She moves like someone who’s been hit too many times and still expects it. She shields the child with her body, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.
“We don’t want trouble,” she says in shaky Ataxian dialect. “Please.”
“I’m not—” I falter. “I just need to know what they’ve said. What Kanapa told you.”
Her eyes flick toward the outer fence. Then to the sky.
“They said they’ll kill us in the morning,” she whispers.
My blood turns to ice.
“What? No. He can’t—he wouldn’t?—”
She clutches the boy tighter. “They said it’s for containment. Security. One soldier laughed. He said we’re disease.”
My knees nearly give out. I want to scream. I want to throw the recorder at Kanapa’s smug face and dare him to explain himself. Instead, I stumble backward, duck out from under the tarp, and bolt through the compound.
I find Darun sharpening his blade outside our tent. The motion is automatic. Meditative. Dangerous.
“Darun!” I hiss.
His eyes lift. One look at my face and the steel in his hand stills.
“He’s going to do it,” I say, chest heaving. “Kanapa. He’s going to slaughter them.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” I shove the words out before I lose them. “I just spoke to them. A woman—she said they’re calling it a ‘cleansing.’ Like they’re garbage.”
Darun looks away. “You need to stay out of this.”
“No.”
His head snaps back toward me.
I step closer. “Don’t youdaretell me to shut up and play dead.”
“You don’t understand?—”
“I understandperfectly,” I bite out. “I understand genocide. I understand watching someone pretend it’s necessary. I understand cowards who call themselves commanders.”
He stands. Fast. Towering.
His voice is low. Taut. “Amy.Stop.This isn’t just a political statement. This is war.”
“This is murder,” I shoot back. “And I know you’re not like him.”
That lands. Like a punch. His shoulders tense.
