“Why?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. I hate how much I want the answer to be something soft, something safe, something that would make the world make sense again.
He looks away for half a second—just a glance toward the wall, toward the door, toward the invisible eyes that are always watching in a place like this—and then he looks back at me.
“Because if I let them put you in a box,” he says, voice low, “I become the kind of man I hate.”
My throat tightens.
“That’s still not an answer,” I whisper, though it’s closer.
Lonari takes a step closer, slow, controlled, and lifts his hand—not to touch me, but to hover near my face, a question in motion.
“You want the ugly truth?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say immediately.
He nods once. “I don’t save people I don’t intend to keep alive.”
My breath catches.
“That sounds…,” I start, then stop because my brain is trying to decide whether that’s a threat or a promise.
Lonari’s voice softens by a hair. “You’re not leverage to me. You’re a person who saw the truth and didn’t run from it. You’re stubborn and smart and you talk too much. And you don’t deserve to get swallowed by institutions that see you as paperwork.”
My chest aches at that last part, because it hits the bruise I try not to touch.
Institutions.
Paperwork.
Containment teams.
I swallow, and I can’t stop the words that spill out next, because once the dam cracks, the water doesn’t politely wait.
“I grew up in an IHC orphan system,” I say, voice hoarse. “Not the cute holonet version where kids get adopted and everyone cries. The real one.”
Lonari’s eyes sharpen, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“They didn’t hit us,” I continue, because that’s what people expect. “That would’ve been… too obvious. They just… processed us. Tagged us. Moved us. If you cried, you got written up. Ifyou fought back, you got isolated. If you were quiet, you got forgotten. Every adult who was supposed to protect you was just trying to keep their own job.”
My hands shake as I talk, and I press them flat to my thighs, feeling the fabric under my palms, grounding myself in sensation so I don’t drift into memory.
“I learned early that the only time anyone listened was when you were useful,” I whisper. “When you could fix something, clean something, take the pressure off. That’s how you get to be seen. That’s how you survive.”
Lonari’s face goes very still, and in that stillness I see rage—not explosive, not performative, but deep and ugly and personal.
“That’s why you’re so…,” he starts, then stops, like he’s searching for the right word.
“Prickly?” I offer, bitter.
He huffs softly. “Yeah. That.”
I laugh, but it comes out wet.
“I called the IHC tonight,” I say, and my voice turns sharp again because if I stay soft I’ll fall apart. “I tried. I did the right thing. I told them there was an attack, that people were executed, that I had evidence—and the first thing they asked was my location.”
Lonari’s eyes darken.
“They didn’t ask what happened,” I continue. “They didn’t ask if anyone survived. They didn’t ask for the archive. They asked where I was, and when I said Gur, they started talking about containment like I’m a biohazard.”
