I let the silence stretch long enough that she starts to shift in her seat.
“She is not unstable,” I say at last. “She is perceptive.”
“That perception could be dangerous.”
“Only to those with something to hide.”
Versall’s mouth tightens. “Commander?—”
“She has done nothing to justify escalation.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face. Just for a second.
“She is due for reassessment by Cycle’s End,” she says. “If her psychological profile trends toward emotional dependency, we may need to reassign oversight.”
My pulse rises. I keep my tone neutral.
“She does not exhibit dependency.”
“Are you certain that’s not projection?”
There it is.
Therealquestion.
They’re not just evaluating her. They’re testingme.
I’m not supposed to feel anything.
Not curiosity.
Not guilt.
And definitely not the thing clawing its way up my chest every time I hear her voice crack with memory.
I stand without permission.
“Are we finished?”
Versall stands too. “You’ll receive further instructions within the rotation.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
As I turn to leave, she says: “You used to be known for dispassionate judgment, Tatek. Some at Central have begun to wonder if the war left deeper scars than reported.”
I don’t respond.
Because if I do, it won’t be dispassionate.
That thought follows me down the corridor like a shadow I can’t outpace. The walls of the station feel narrower now. Same dimensions. Same pattern. But smaller. Compressed. My stride is calibrated, but the rhythm’s off. I feel it in the soles of my boots, in the timed pulse of surveillance drones, in the stuttered flicker of lights as I cross into Quarantine Block C.
She’s still in the same unit. No relocation alert. No override tag—yet. The door recognizes me before I lift a hand. Standard entry tone. No resistance.
I step in and the first thing I notice is the quiet.
The second is her.
She’s asleep when I check on her.
