“That tracks.”
I move toward the bed, drop my bag onto it harder than necessary. The fabric doesn’t shift much—another bolt hidden beneath the surface. Of course it is. I sit, bounce once, then stand again, restless energy crawling under my skin.
“So,” I say, turning back to him. “What happens now?”
“Now you rest.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Your vitals suggest otherwise.”
I stiffen. “You’re monitoring my vitals?”
“Yes.”
“Without consent?”
He tilts his head again. “You entered a Coalition checkpoint.”
“That’s not consent, that’s coercion.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize either. Just watches me with that same unreadable focus, like I’m a puzzle he refuses to rush.
“Why me?” I ask again, quieter this time. “You could have flagged anyone. There were dozens of civilians in that line.”
“You are not anyone.”
“Flattering.”
“You are statistically anomalous.”
“That’s worse.”
The silence stretches. It’s not empty. It’s heavy, layered with things he’s not saying and things I don’t know how to ask. I become acutely aware of how close he is to the door, how his gaze tracks me when I move, how he never once looks away completely.
I pace the length of the room, fingers brushing the wall panel. Smooth. Warm. Responsive. I could probably access the interface if I tried—but I don’t. Not yet. He’s watching too closely.
“You ever get tired of standing?” I ask.
“No.”
“Ever sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“No.”
“Then why stay?”
His eyes flicker—something like surprise this time. “Because if I leave, others may come.”
“And they’d be worse?”
“They would not hesitate.”
That lands. I swallow.
