“I have archived security data from Yatori,” I say, forcing my voice into something that won’t break. “Docking logs overwritten in real time, biometric mismatch on supposed Vakutan troops, transmission header inconsistencies, and?—”
“Miss James,” she interrupts, “your presence in Gur indicates possible Coalition influence. You are instructed to remain where you are. A containment team?—”
“Containment?” My voice rises before I can stop it. “A containment team forme?”
“—will be dispatched to secure you and your materials,” she finishes, like she’s telling me my package delivery window.
I laugh, one sharp bark that tastes like bitterness.
“You’re not even asking what happened,” I say. “You’re not asking how many civilians were executed. You’re not asking why an Alliance-marked cruiser docked without authorization. You’re asking where I am like I’m a misplaced asset.”
Her eyes harden. “Your safety and the security of IHC interests are the priority.”
“My safety?” I repeat, incredulous. “You mean your optics. You mean your control.”
“Miss James?—”
“No,” I cut in, voice shaking now. “No. I’m done being a number on a form. I have evidence that can stop a war, and you’re treating me like I stole office supplies.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t change, but her tone drops into something colder.
“You are advised not to disseminate unverified materials. Doing so may be considered?—”
“Considered what?” I hiss. “Treason? Terrorism? Inconvenient?”
Silence.
That silence says everything.
I stare at her through the holo, feeling that old orphanage rage crawl up my spine—the memory of administrators smiling while they signed off on “necessary relocations,” the way institutions always protect themselves first and call it morality.
“IHC Intake,” I say, voice low and steady now, “you have a witness to a war trigger event on record, and you’re choosing to interrogate her instead of listening. That’s your choice. Don’t expect me to die politely for it.”
Her mouth tightens. “Your call is being logged.”
“Good,” I say. “Log this: you are failing.”
I cut the connection.
The holo collapses.
My hands shake in the silence that follows, and the room’s fake luxury suddenly feels like a joke someone told at my expense.
I sit there for a second, breathing hard, and my eyes sting.
“Okay,” I whisper, pressing my palm to my forehead. “So that’s how it is.”
I glance at the archive drive.
The truth feels heavier now, not lighter.
IHC isn’t a lifeline.
It’s a cage with paperwork.
Outside, the Nun’s neon glows bright and indifferent, and somewhere down below, people are gambling away their future while the galaxy spins toward another war.
A soft chime sounds again—this time from the wall display.
