He takes one deliberate step toward me. Not enough to threaten. Enough to shift the air between us.
“I am adjusting.”
“To what?”
“You.”
My mouth goes dry. “That’s a little vague for someone who hates metaphor.”
His gaze drops to my hands. I realize I’ve clenched them. I exhale, loosen my fists.
“You think I’m dangerous?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then why the hell am I in a bedroom and not a cell?”
He hesitates. And that alone tells me more than words would have.
“You’re waiting,” I whisper. “You want to see what I’ll do.”
“That is not untrue.”
“But not the whole truth.”
Another long silence. Then: “There is debate surrounding your intent.”
“Debate?” I laugh, sharp. “Let me guess—some files say I’m a threat, some say I’m harmless, and nobody wants to admit they screwed up?”
He doesn’t deny it.
I walk past him toward the far corner of the room, letting him see I’m not afraid to turn my back. “Well, let me clear it up for you, Commander. I’m neither. I’m not a martyr, and I’m not a pawn. I’m a data analyst who flagged something I wasn’t supposed to see, and now I’m caught in some stupid power play dressed up in peacekeeping colors.”
When I turn back, he’s watching me with that same unreadable stillness. “What did you flag?”
I hesitate. It’s the first time he’s asked me a real question. Not a probe. Not a test. Just… curiosity.
“Shipping discrepancies,” I say. “Aid manifests that didn’t match consumption logs. Civilian reclassifications with no audit trail. Holonet interference that wasn’t regional. Small things. But patterned.”
He nods slowly. “The pattern implies intent.”
“Yes. And intent implies danger.”
“Danger,” he echoes, “can be difficult to define.”
“Only if you’re the one causing it.”
His jaw tightens. Not a lot. But it’s something.
I step closer. “Why do you care?”
He looks at me. Really looks.
“Because intent,” he says quietly, “is how war begins again.”
The words land like a drop in still water. Ripples spreading. Unspoken things moving underneath.
I exhale. My head is starting to hurt again.
