That’s how you make someone feel like they’re being helped.
“Dr. London,” the woman across from me says, her voice calm, measured, almost kind, “do you understand how serious this situation is?”
I meet her gaze.
Don’t flinch.
“Yes,” I reply. “That’s why I never made it public.”
A flicker passes between them.
Not surprise.
Adjustment.
They weren’t expecting that answer.
Good.
The man beside her slides a folder across the table.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like the motion itself carries weight.
I don’t reach for it immediately.
I let it sit there.
Then I open it.
Photos.
Charts.
Fragments of my work—pulled out of context and arranged into something that looks like intent.
And headlines.
So many headlines.
My name repeated over and over like it’s already been decided.
“You created a system capable of influencing investigations across multiple jurisdictions,” the man says. “Without oversight.”
I close the folder.
Carefully.
“I created a system capable of detecting manipulation,” I reply. “Someone else weaponized it.”
The woman leans forward slightly.
“And you expect us to believe that?”
I hold her gaze.
