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Layered.
Designed to overlap.
“Dr. London, did you develop an unauthorized predictive model—”
“Who did you share the data with—”
“Are you aware of the international implications—”
I don’t answer.
Not yet.
I listen.
Because questions tell you more than answers ever could.
Then—
The door opens.
And everything shifts.
I don’t look at first.
I don’t need to.
I already know.
Something in my chest drops anyway.
“Director London,” the man says.
I look up.
And there he is.
Peter.
Not family.
Never was.
But closer than most.
He funded my early research.
Backed me when others hesitated.
Taught me how to navigate rooms like this.
Or so I thought.
“Peter?” I whisper.
His expression softens.
Almost regretful.
