“No shit.”
He doesn’t laugh. Just crosses the space and crouches beside me, his frame casting a long shadow over my legs. He smells like old metal and ozone and the faint bite of whatever blade polish he uses. Sharp. Grounded.
“They're not looking here,” he says.
“Not yet.”
He watches me a second. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t feed me hollow comfort.
Then he shifts, pulls a threadbare blanket from the pile and hands it over. “Floor’s gonna eat your warmth. Use it.”
I hesitate. Then take it. My fingers graze his. He doesn’t pull away.
“You saw it?” I ask, voice thin.
He nods.
“They’re twisting everything. Like it’s all some political stunt.”
He doesn’t correct me.
“They’re saying the data is fake,” I whisper, reading the scrolling text. “Because we sent it anonymously. They’re claiming I fabricated the logs to cover my tracks.”
His eyes flick, hard.
“It’s a stall tactic.”
“It’s working, Roja. They’re making me the villain so they can ignore the evidence. Without a verified witness, the tribunal is going to toss the whole file.”
I look up at him.
“We stayed in the shadows to stay safe, but the shadows are killing the truth.”
Roja doesn’t answer immediately, but his jaw tightens. He looks at the screen, then at me, a heavy calculation shifting behind his eyes.
“Truth needs a face,” he murmurs, more to himself than me.
I want to believe him. I want to. But my stomach’s tight. My mouth tastes like rust.
“Do you think it was someone from the camp?” I ask.
He looks away. “Could be anyone. Anyone who ever saw you as leverage.”
I nod, slow. Then add, quieter, “You ever think we should’ve just run?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then he looks back, and his voice is like gravel soaked in regret. “We did run. This is what running looks like when you stop turning your back.”
I don’t cry. I’m done crying. But my chest aches like I have.
I pull the blanket tighter. The warehouse hums as the wind picks up again, moaning through cracked vents. I shut my eyes and try to count my breaths.
One.
Two.
But the screen keeps flickering behind my lids. My name. My face. My mother’s case number in the corner of a leaked document, redacted and stamped with a file number I thought no one remembered.
Anonymous insiders.
