I hang up on him. I don't yell. I just disconnect.
Because if I yell, I’ll throw this holopad through the godsdamn wall.
I storm across the base like a voltage spike, heading straight for Kanapa’s bunker. It’s late. Don’t care. My boots slap pavement like gunfire, and the guards don’t stop me—probably because I look like I might kill something.
His door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. The room inside is dim, cluttered with armor plating, weapon schematics, an ancient flask that smells like poison and pride. Kanapa’s behind a desk, wiping something metallic—a knife, maybe.
He doesn’t even look up. “Reporter.”
“I wrote a piece.”
“Let me guess—glowing review?”
“It’s the truth.”
Now he looks at me. And hegrins.It's the grin of a man who's stepped on too many landmines to be afraid of one more.
“Truth,” he repeats, dragging out the word like it’s a taste he’s savoring. “Truth is a weapon. Only fools forget who it’s pointed at.”
I blink. “Did you just quote military propagandato me?”
He sets the knife down. “You think the war cares about nuance? It’s about control. Narrative. You shoot a soldier in the chest, he dies once. You shoot the story he tells himself to get out of bed every morning?” He leans forward. “You kill him every day.”
I want to scream. I want topunchhim.
Instead, I leave.
Comms bay. 02:37 standard.
The lights are soft and blue in here, the kind that tries to be calming but just makes my nerves hum louder. I’ve got the footage looped again. My cursor hovers over Mair’s face, frozen mid-hesitation.
There’s something in his eyes—guilt? Regret?
I’m chewing on that thought when I hear the boots.
Heavy. Deliberate.
Darun.
Of course.
He doesn’t knock. Just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
“Late night,” he says.
“Early morning.”
Silence stretches.
“You’re angry,” he says finally.
“No shit.”
He walks in, slow, careful, like I might throw something at him. I don’t.
“I saw the piece. Or part of it. The—” he hesitates, “—toy shot.”
“You like it?”
