His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts—less sharp-edged scrutiny, more… focus.
“Report,” he says again.
“Moisture’s holding better since the adjustment,” I answer, pushing myself up and wiping my hands on my pants. “Lower roots aren’t drowning anymore. You can actually see the leaves relaxing.”
He looks down this time.
Really looks.
Not just at me.
At the plants.
“That was the intended result,” he says.
“Good,” I reply. “Because unintended results around here tend to involve things dying.”
His gaze flicks back to mine.
“You continue to speak as though failure is expected.”
“I speak like someone who’s been paying attention,” I say.
We stand there for a second, the humid air thick between us, the faint sound of water running somewhere nearby filling the silence.
“You have adjusted your routes,” he says.
Not a question.
I shrug. “Makes the work more efficient.”
“It alters predictability.”
“Yeah,” I say lightly. “That’s kinda the point.”
“That is not your decision to make.”
“No,” I agree. “But it’s working.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Behind him, I can see Fenrix watching us, not even pretending not to. His posture is tight, shoulders pulled back like he’s bracing for impact that hasn’t come yet.
I look back at Verr.
“You’re here a lot,” I say.
The words slip out before I decide whether they should.
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“Observation is part of my function.”
“Four times in one day?” I tilt my head. “Must be a fascinating patch of dirt.”
A flicker.
