Her eyes flick over the readouts, barely meeting mine.
“Vitals are steady. Neural response within expected range,” she mutters. “Let’s start with postural re-integration.”
I grunt. “Didn’t we already do this?”
“You skipped yesterday’s session.”
“Wasn’t in the mood to play marionette.”
She sighs, not even trying to hide the frustration. “It’snotoptional, Vael.”
“Funny how nothing ever is with you.”
That gets her attention. Her jaw ticks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I push off the cot. My body protests, but I force it to move — step by step. She watches me, arms crossed, eyes tracking every motion like a hawk.
“It means,” I say, stretching just enough to emphasize the point, “you’re real good at orders. At controlling every little variable.”
She glares. “You’re going to tear your subclavian linkage if you keep posturing like that.”
“Maybe I want it to tear.”
“Why? So you can avoid answers?”
That stops us both.
My breath comes hot. Her shoulders square like she’s ready for war.
We’ve circled each other for days, but now we’re both tired of dancing.
“I read your file,” I say quietly.
Her face pales. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.
“It’s full of gaps. Like someone scrubbed it with a scalpel.”
She turns away, starts adjusting a diagnostic panel. “You shouldn’t have access to that.”
“But Ido. Why would the Alliance redact a war medic’s record unless they’re hiding something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re covering their own asses.”
“Are you?”
Her fingers pause over the panel. Then slowly curl into fists.
I take a step closer. The air between us sizzles. I swear I can hear the hum of her breath — ragged and sharp.
“You’re lying to me, Rynn,” I say, low and certain.
“And you thinkthis—” she spins, pointing to the half-metal mess I’ve become “—entitles you to answers?”
“No. But the way you look at me does.”
She flinches.
I close the distance. One step. Two.
