I don’t need to.
I know he’s here.
When I do look, it’s slow, deliberate, controlled.
Verr stands at the far end of the row, not moving, not speaking, just watching. The guards along the perimeter have adjusted again—tighter spacing, sharper lines—and the workers nearest him have found an urgent need to focus on tasks that require their full attention and absolutely no awareness of anything else.
He doesn’t call my name this time.
He just walks.
And I feel it.
Every step, even when I don’t hear it, registers in the way the air shifts, the way the space between people adjusts to make room for him without anyone consciously choosing to move.
He stops in front of me.
Close.
Not as close as yesterday.
Close enough.
“Report,” he says.
I blink.
“Excuse me?”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “Your section.”
Right.
Inspection.
Of course.
I inhale slowly, grounding myself in the scent of the garden, the feel of soil still clinging faintly to my fingers.
“Moisture levels are running high,” I say, gesturing toward the bed in front of me. “The irrigation cycle is overcompensating for last week’s deficit. If it continues, we’re going to start seeing root rot in the lower layers.”
He doesn’t look at the plants.
He looks at me.
“And you have corrected this.”
“No,” I say.
A beat.
“No,” I repeat. “Because I don’t have access to the irrigation controls. I can mitigate it, but I can’t fix it.”
Silence stretches between us.
Behind him, I can see Skot moving along the adjacent row, his pace steady, his posture unremarkable, but his proximity is not accidental.
Verr’s head tilts slightly.
