Alliance officers surge forward through smoke.
“Reapers!” one bellows. “They did this!”
The accusation lands instantly—too instantly.
I turn instinctively toward the Reaper delegation.
Smoke obscures most of the chamber. Figures move through haze—Vakutan armor flashing, League medics dragging wounded free.
I glimpse massive silhouettes through gray.
Reapers helping their injured.
One towering shape—Kael—standing amid falling debris, blood streaking one temple.
Then the smoke thickens.
Alliance security floods between us.
Weapons raised.
“Contain them!” someone shouts.
I lose sight of him.
Completely.
The chamber fractures into motion—medics shouting triage codes, Vakutan officers barking commands into compads.
“Energy traces match Reaper output!”
“Fleet readiness now!”
“Alert Admiral Valen!”
My heart slams hard enough to bruise.
Through the shattered viewport, Alliance cruisers ignite engines. Blue-white flares bloom against black space.
They were ready.
They were waiting.
This is not confusion.
This is ignition.
“Lockdown protocol engaged,” the station announces in a cold mechanical tone.
Metal doors slam shut along secondary corridors. The air pressure shifts slightly as compartments seal.
“They bombed a neutral summit,” a Vakutan officer snarls near me.
“We don’t know that!” I fire back.
“Reaper energy signatures confirm it!”
“In under two minutes?” I demand. “That’s impossible.”
