He feels it too.
For a suspended second, the containment emitters hum louder in my awareness. The air between us thickens, charged and dangerous. My pulse crashes against my ribs with a rhythm that feels foreign.
No.
I step inside.
The door seals shut behind me with a heavy metallic thud.
“You are not Alliance,” he says first, his voice low and resonant in the enclosed space.
“No,” I reply, forcing steadiness into my tone. “League.”
His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. “Good.”
The word lands with unsettling weight.
I move to the table and set my compad down carefully, aligning it with unnecessary precision. My fingers tremble once; I still them by flattening my palm against the cool metal surface. The table smells faintly of disinfectant and something sharper—ozone from the containment fields.
“You demanded arbitration,” I say, keeping my eyes on the data interface as I activate the projection.
“Yes.”
“You stand accused of terrorism.”
“Yes.”
“You deny involvement.”
“Yes.”
His composure is infuriating.
I lift my gaze.
“Do you intend to elaborate beyond monosyllables.”
“That depends on the quality of the inquiry.”
His voice remains calm, almost conversational, as if we are discussing trade tariffs rather than a bombing.
I project the preliminary forensic waveform into the air between us. Blue light spills across his chest and shoulders, casting sharp angular shadows along his scar.
“Energy signatures recovered from the blast site match Reaper harmonic output,” I say. “Specifically, patterns associated with your clan.”
He does not look at the projection immediately. He looks at me.
It makes my skin feel too tight.
“Do they,” he says softly.
“It is not a rhetorical question.”
“Everything is rhetorical until proven otherwise.”
I suppress the urge to snap.
“Alliance-grade detonator housing was recovered from the epicenter,” I continue. “Care to explain how that intersects with Reaper energy signatures.”
