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“I told them you’d come quietly.”
The words don’t land right.
They don’t fit.
The room tilts slightly—not physically, but enough that something inside me shifts out of place.
“You,” I say.
It comes out quieter than I expect.
Sharper too.
“I tried to stop this,” he says gently. “But it’s bigger than both of us now.”
No.
That’s not what this is.
That’s not regret.
That’s justification.
And suddenly—
I see it.
The timing.
The coordination.
The narrative.
The access.
This wasn’t just an attack.
It was a transition.
A transfer of control.
A handoff.
And he—
He was the one who made sure it happened clean.
My pulse steadies.
Not panic.
Not anger.
Clarity.
Because now I know exactly what I’m facing.
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