Nowhere.
Kenron’s not even a blip in the footnotes.
The pen in my hand snaps in half.
Ink stains my fingers, seeps into the crease of my palm like blood.
I text Marlen, one of the aides on the urban infrastructure board.
Me:Can you pull the original sponsor draft of ZP-1397? I want to see if the exemption list was amended.
Marlen:You still on that? Thought it was a done deal.
Me:Just send it. Please.
The old draft arrives five minutes later.
It’s worse.
The restaurant wasneverprotected.
And I put my name on it.
Not just with a vote. I co-signed the floor motion to expedite.
A smiley, efficient, helpful little nudge from the Senator’s niece.
I push away from the desk so hard my chair tips and cracks against the wall. I don’t pick it up.
Instead, I sit on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, laptop glaring beside me.
I call Kenron.
It rings. And rings.
Then his voice: “This number doesn’t take calls anymore.”
Click.
I don’t cry.
Not yet.
Instead, I go where I should’ve gone weeks ago.
To the forum.
It’s held in the lower east atrium, three levels below the main Senate deck, under the pretense of “community dialogue.” It’s always too cold. Too echoey. A place built to look accessible and sound empty.
Tonight, it’s packed.
Vakutan elders wrapped in ceremonial shawls sit beside Daltari street vendors and human-alien couples holding hands like lifelines. The air hums with tension, with grief, with restrained fury.
I stand in the back. Hood up. No name badge. No aides.
I don’t speak.
I listen.
