He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to.
The narrative is already forming around us.
Across the chamber, someone shouts, “Where is the Reaper leader?”
Another voice answers, “Gone!”
My stomach drops.
Gone?
Did he retreat? Was he pulled back? Did security extract him?
I can’t see through the smoke.
I don’t see him again.
Only chaos.
Only accusation.
Only Alliance officers shouting for mobilization.
Another tremor ripples through the station as distant engines flare brighter outside the containment field.
The smell of burned metal thickens. The floor trembles faintly beneath my boots. A medic presses gauze against my cheek where blood still trails warm toward my jaw.
“You’re cut,” she says sharply.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
Across the chamber, the words spread like contagion.
“Reapers.”
“Terrorism.”
“Act of war.”
Fleet mobilization percentages echo through open comm channels.
Eighty percent readiness.
Ninety.
I stand in the wreckage of what was supposed to be arbitration and feel the axis of the galaxy shift beneath my feet.
Not because of the explosion.
Because of how fast blame landed.
Because of how quickly engines ignited.
