Now he looks at the waveform.
His eyes narrow slightly—not in fear, not in surprise, but in assessment.
“That pattern,” he says after a moment.
“What about it.”
“It is too symmetrical.”
I hesitate.
“Define symmetrical.”
“Our energy leaves variance,” he says, shifting slightly despite the containment cuffs. The emitters hum faintly inresponse. “Irregularity. Organic fluctuation. This is calibrated. Engineered for identification.”
My pulse spikes.
“You’re claiming fabrication.”
“I am stating observation.”
“You were positioned near the center of the chamber.”
“I was assigned there.”
“You could have planted charges prior to?—”
“If I intended to destroy that summit,” he interrupts calmly, “I would not need theatrics.”
The bluntness of that answer sends an involuntary flush up my spine.
“That sounds like a threat,” I say tightly.
“It is a statement of capability.”
The air feels thinner.
I shift my stance slightly, grounding myself through the soles of my boots against the cold floor.
“You lost one of your own,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to believe you would not sacrifice an envoy to provoke war.”
His expression does not change, but something in his eyes hardens—just enough to register.
“I do not waste my people for spectacle,” he says.
The silence that follows is not empty. It is dense, layered with the faint hum of containment emitters and the distant vibration of station systems rerouting power.
“You felt the vibration before detonation,” I say abruptly, watching his face closely.
His gaze sharpens.
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
