Dennis appears.
Of course he does.
His face is a masterclass in synthetic calm—one of those perfectly symmetrical visages that was always better suited to campaign posters than family photos. His silvered hair’s slicked back, not a strand out of place. His suit is flawless. His voice, when it comes, is warm.
Like syrup on a scalpel.
“Kristi,” he says, tilting his head. “You’ve caused quite a stir.”
I don’t respond.
He smiles. “You’ve made yourself a symbol.”
I clench my jaw. My pulse ticks in my throat, loud enough to drown out logic.
He continues. “Symbols, my dear, tend to burn fast.”
My mouth’s dry. My palms, slick. But I speak.
“Then let me burn.”
His face twitches. Just a flicker. Like a mask slipping, then snapping back into place.
“You think this will change anything?” he asks. “You think the truth matters?”
“It matters enough to scare you.”
He leans forward, voice lowering. “What you’ve done—it’s reckless. Childish. You’ve aligned yourself with insurgents. With aliens. With dangerous ideologues who will tear this quadrant apart given the chance.”
“Better torn than poisoned quietly.”
“There will be consequences.”
“There already were.”
He’s silent a beat too long.
Then he says, almost gently, “I tried to protect you.”
“No,” I whisper. “You tried to own me. There’s a difference.”
He sighs. The weary, world-on-my-shoulders sigh of a man too used to getting away with everything.
“Goodbye, Kristi,” he says, and kills the call.
The screen goes black.
I stare at my reflection in the holoscreen.
I don’t recognize the woman looking back.
She’s bruised, shadow-eyed, hair tangled, mouth a grim slash across a too-pale face.
She looks exactly like what she is.
Someone with nothing left to lose.
The sky’s gone violet-gray outside. Kenron’s gone—left an hour ago to meet with Tarell and a few ex-squadmates who still owe him favors. Said he’d be back before midnight.
