The corridor narrows as we move deeper into the compound, the amber lighting dimming to something closer to rust. He stops at a door that requires both palm print and retinal scan, and when it slides open, the air that escapes carries the stale chill of climate-controlled storage.
The records room is smaller than I expected, a single console dominating the center with storage units lining every wall. Screens and data ports and decades of House Draven's secrets compressed into a space barely large enough for the equipment it holds. I move to the console and begin pulling up the files that match what he sent to my tablet, cross-referencing dates and names and causes of death while the larger picture takes shape in my mind.
He doesn't leave.
I expect him to. He's granted me access, pointed me toward the work, fulfilled his end of whatever bargain we've struck. There's no reason for him to remain in this cramped archive while I sort through toxicology reports and incident timelines.
He remains anyway, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, tracking my movements with that predator stillness. The position blocks the only exit. I'm not certain if that's intentional or instinct, whether he's keeping others out or keeping me in. Both, probably. The answer is usually both with him.
A dark stain marks his sleeve near the shoulder. Blood. Not fresh, but recent enough that he hasn't bothered to change.
“You're injured.”
“It's nothing.” He doesn't move from the doorway.
“It's blood.” I cross the space between us before I can question the impulse. This is what I do. This is who I am. “Let me see.”
I reach for his sleeve. He doesn't stop me.
The permission in his stillness registers somewhere beneath my ribs. He's letting me touch him. From what I've observed, he doesn't let anyone touch him.
I push back the fabric and find a shallow gash across his bicep, the edges already knitting with Draveki healing speed. It doesn't need treatment. I know this. My fingers stay pressed against his arm anyway, my pale skin stark against charcoal.
“Sparring session,” he says. “A junior enforcer needed correction.”
“And you let him land a hit?”
“I was distracted.”
His gaze drops to where my hand rests against his arm. The muscle beneath my palm is warm, harder than human tissue, and my pulse responds to the contact in ways I can't hide from someone who can scent arousal.
“Distracted by what?”
I shouldn't ask. The question escapes anyway. His pupils expand, silver swallowed by black. He doesn't answer with words. His body answers for him.
I release his arm. Step back. Return to the console and the files waiting on the screen.
Minutes pass. Ten, then twenty. I pull up autopsy images and cross-reference patrol schedules and try to ignore his attention on my back. The silence presses down until my nerves stretch thin enough to snap.
“You need something?” The question comes out sharper than I intend, brittle with an awareness I can't shake from that moment at the doorway. He's too large for this room, too present, and his proximity reaches me across six feet of stale air in ways I'd rather not examine.
“Observing.”
“Observing what?”
“How you work.” He doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't do any of the small restless things humans do when they're waiting. “You have a system.”
“Most people do.”
“Most people don't color-code their findings.” A flicker crosses his face, not quite a smile but the shadow of one. “You've used three different shades of yellow.”
Of course he noticed. I turn back to the console, putting the screen between us like armor. “Different levels of confidence. Light yellow means probable, standard yellow means possible, and dark yellow means I'm guessing. I don't appreciate guessing.”
“And the red?”
“Questions. Things I need to understand before the picture makes sense.” I pull up the timeline I've been building, the pattern of incidents laid out in damning sequence. “Enough tobe certain this isn't random. Whoever's doing this has inside access and xenobiology expertise, and they're working through a target list.”
He's silent for a moment, processing what the shrinking intervals mean. “They're getting confident.”
