Soft. Just once.
I look up.
A file glows on the screen. Newly decrypted. Labeled: “FINAL CULL SEQUENCE – INTERNAL APPROVALS.”
My stomach twists.
I tap it open.
It’s a log. Not just names. Not just dates.
But signatures.
Authorizations from Helios Combine executives. Contractual language buried in pages of legal sludge that, if you know where to look, paints a picture in blood.
“Subject Z-113 neutralized due to compliance instability. Protocol Fireglass enacted.”
“Whistleblowing risk—containment approved. Frame local contractor. Incident to read as lab accident.”
“Leak suppression team deployed. Collateral acceptable. Civilian visibility: minimum.”
It’s not just circumstantial. It’s proof.
They staged it. Every damn one. The accidents. The fires. The crashes.
Quinn didn’t just get too close—hestepped on a landminethey laid years ago.
My throat burns.
My fingers dig into the crate until the fake leather squeals.
I grab the pad. Stand. March.
I don’t hesitate this time.
I find him where I left him, crouched beside the cargo wall, head bowed, tail still, breathing ragged. The comm pad lies beside him like it burned his hand.
I stop in front of him.
He doesn’t look up.
So I crouch.
Place the data pad on his knee.
“This just unlocked.”
Nothing.
“Valtron. Look at me.”
He does.
And gods, he lookswrecked.
“I get it,” I say softly. “You’ve been trained to carry the world on your back. Since you were a kid, right? Since before you even had a say in it. You were taught to run into fire. To protect. To fight. And to never ask who was doing the burning.”
His jaw twitches.
