“Roja’s not a witness,” I say sharply. “He’s the reason I’m alive.”
The panel doesn’t blink. “So, personal relationship?”
“Yes.”
“Romantic?”
“Intimate,” I say. “And loyal.”
They shift to data. How we acquired the leak. Who provided access. Times. Locations. Ceera’s name never comes up, but I feel the weight of her ghost in every corner. They press harder on Roja—military training, hacking protocols, armament logistics. He answers in clipped, sharp lines. Like bullets.
They ask about the casino explosion. He doesn’t flinch. He just says, “Collateral. We minimized it.”
They ask about the cleric.
Roja leans forward then. “He sold people,” he says, low and vicious. “Fed them into a machine and called it diplomacy.”
They go quiet for a beat.
“Did you intend to destabilize Jark District command?”
“No,” I say. “I intended to survive.”
The panel’s lead scribbles something on his pad. “Do you believe your actions were justified?”
“Do you believe theirs were?” Roja fires back.
The air goes still.
Then comes the final blow.
“Do you believe justice was served?”
Roja’s voice drops to a whisper. “Not yet. But it’s bleeding.”
The red light on the camera goes dark.
One by one, the tribunal rises.
“That’s all,” the lead says. “You’re dismissed.”
No thank you. No handshake. Just a hiss of a door unlocking behind us.
I don’t move. Not for a full second. Then Roja’s hand finds mine, warm and rough, and he pulls me up. His grip is tight—tight enough to feel the bones in my fingers shift—but I don’t let go.
We walk out into light that’s too bright. My eyes sting. The sky’s low and bruised, clouded like it might cry but hasn’t decided yet. I’m still trembling, but not from fear—adrenaline, maybe. Or rage that hasn’t found a home yet.
Roja doesn’t say anything. He just squeezes my hand again.
“You good?” he asks.
“No,” I breathe, voice thin. “But I’m still here.”
He nods. “Yeah. You are.”
We keep walking.
And for the first time in weeks, no one tries to stop us.
