I lie there, pulse racing. The white noise hum of the machines seems to get louder, angrier. I stare at the IV line trailing from my arm like it’s a leash. Darun wouldn’t have let them take it.
I clamp down on the thought.
Time passes. Could be minutes. Could be hours.
Then Rex walks in.
Not the Rex I remember—not the sharp-eyed editor with a bite in his voice and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. This Rex looks deflated. Pale. There’s a tremble in his hands he’s trying to hide by clutching a data slate.
“Amy,” he says. “You look like hell.”
“You sound like someone who’s here to lie to me,” I rasp.
He flinches a little, and that’s how I know I’m right.
I sit up, ignoring the flare of pain in my side. “Where is it?”
Rex exhales slowly, drops into the chair beside me. “The Alliance seized everything. Your recorder. Your notes. Debriefs. All of it.”
“They can’t do that.”
“They did.”
I stare at him, heart pounding. “I had it all, Rex. Everything. The attack, the mutiny. Kanapa ordering the execution of civilians?—”
“And Kanapa,” Rex interrupts softly, “died a hero.”
The words hit like a gut punch.
He leans forward, eyes heavy. “That’s the story. It’s everywhere. Broadcast footage, field medals, a full honors funeral. They even reissued his bio with a fabricated final log about ‘defending the frontier against extremist insurgents.’”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s survival,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s something in it—something frayed.
I shake my head, fury bubbling in my chest. “So what? They get away with it? Again?”
“Don’t yell at me,” he says. “I pushed. I called in favors. I threatened board members. You know what I got?”
He lifts the slate. Swipes. Shows me a message. A kill order on the story. Redacted. Sealed.
I stare at the screen. My heart thuds in my ears. “How many?”
“Everyone who had access. Your whole embedded unit was scrubbed. You’re the only one left.”
I laugh. It’s a sharp, bitter sound that doesn’t feel like mine. “Of course I am.”
Rex looks at me, face pulled into something I’ve never seen on him before. Regret.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I think he means it.
“I should be dead.”
“Yeah. You should.”
We sit in silence for a while.
“I’ll go back,” I whisper eventually. “Find the ruins. Find something.”
