“I feel... delayed,” I say instead.
That, at least, gets a reaction. The corner of his mouth flickers. Not a smile, exactly, but something close. “Delays are often tactical.”
The door slides open behind me with a whisper of air, breaking the moment. A new voice crackles over the intercom: “Unit Forty-Two, request clarification. Is Civilian Ellison being rerouted?”
Tatek doesn’t answer. Not with words. He taps a panel at his wrist, and the door hisses shut again, sealing us in. The lights dim to a softer blue-white. Quarantine protocol. I swallow hard.
“This is where I ask for a lawyer,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
“Do civilians in your systems still believe in justice?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his tone.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Your tone implied expectation. But your records imply disillusionment.”
I laugh, more bitter than amused. “You’ve read my file.”
“I’ve read fragments.”
“Then you know what happened to my clearance credentials.”
“Reclassification. Due to audit anomalies.”
“Anomalies I didn’t fabricate.”
“You were inconvenient to the process.”
The way he says it—so calmly, like a fact of weather—hits harder than any accusation.
“You sound like you agree with them.”
He shakes his head once. “I do not. But I understand the mechanism.”
I don’t know what to do with that. So I do what I always do when I’m cornered: I talk. “You’re not just observing. You’re studying me. Running diagnostics. Emotional overlays, micro-behaviors. You’re not here for safety protocol. You’re here for profile confirmation.”
He watches me. Doesn’t deny it.
“Why?” I whisper.
Finally, his voice softens. “Because your presence may disrupt more than one system.”
“Disrupt how?”
The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Too fast. Too curious. I hear it the second it’s spoken and know I’ve given him something. Information doesn’t just move one direction in rooms like this. It never does.
He doesn’t answer right away. Of course he doesn’t. He tilts his head—just slightly, like he’s listening for a sound I can’t hear. The overhead lights hum softly, a low vibration that sinks into my teeth. The air smells recycled and faintly antiseptic, like a medbay stripped of compassion.
“You assume disruption is undesirable,” he says at last.
I bark out a humorless laugh. “I assume when someone with authority isolates me in a sealed room, it’s not because I brighten the place.”
“Authority is contextual,” he replies.
“Everything’s contextual if you’re trying to avoid responsibility.”
His eyes flick to my mouth. Just for a second. Then back to my eyes. It’s subtle enough that I almost miss it—but I don’t. I never miss where people look.
The door behind me opens again, this time without ceremony. No warning chime. No announcement. The lighting shifts automatically as we step through, adjusting to a softer, dimmer hue. The corridor beyond is narrower than the checkpoint passageways, the walls smooth and pale, curving inward in a way that makes the space feel more like a throat than a hall.
