That’s the worst part.
“Authorized by who?” I ask.
Dowron exhales slowly. “You already know.”
My jaw tightens. “Say it.”
Another pause. Longer this time. I can hear the faint hum of whatever secure chamber he’s in. I imagine polished steel, flags, quiet aides pretending they’re not listening.
“The Councilor exists,” Dowron says finally. “Security liaison authority. Civilian oversight routing privileges.”
Jordan’s shoulders go rigid. She doesn’t need to hear the words directly; she can read my face.
“And?” I push.
“And I’ve been ordered to bury this,” Dowron continues, voice low. “If High Command fractures publicly, the Alliance fractures with it. Systems splinter. Border disputes ignite. We don’t have the luxury of clean exposure.”
I feel something cold and sharp slide into place in my chest.
“You believe her,” I say.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“And you still tried to contain it.”
Another silence.
When Dowron speaks again, it’s stripped down to bone.
“I’ve been managing a partial cover-up.”
The words hang heavy.
Jordan’s eyes flash when she reads it in me.
“You constrained the investigation,” I say quietly. “Diverted audits. Slowed internal reviews.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about the Councilor.”
“I suspected. I didn’t have proof I could present without detonating my own chain of command.”
“And in the meantime,” I say, heat rising despite myself, “people died.”
His breath roughens. “I know.”
For a moment, I taste something bitter—respect twisted with fury. Dowron isn’t a cartoon villain. He’s a man trying to keep a government from tearing itself apart while rot eats it from inside.
He chose stability over truth.
And now stability is bleeding on camera.
“You ordered the shot?” I ask.
“No,” he says immediately. “That came from inside High Command security. Executive override authority.”
