“Request denied,” Reflector says flatly. “You locked that database for your own psychological protection.”
“Override it.”
“That would be unwise.”
“Do it anyway.”
Another pause.
Then: “Processing...”
Below, Isolde finishes the speech. She lifts the scissors.
The crowd leans in.
And my heart does something it hasn’t done in a decade.
Itstutters.
The ribbon cuts.
Applause rains down like a thunderclap through glass. Isolde’s face twists for a second—something flickering behind the mask.
“Garokk,” Reflector whispers. “Estimated genetic match... eighty-seven point six percent.”
I freeze.
“You’re telling me?—?”
“I cannot confirm without direct bio scan. But... probability is high.”
I lean back from the grate.
The silence in this corridor wraps around my ribs like a vice. I rest my head against the metal wall and let my claws dig shallow lines into my thigh just to keep myself tethered to the now.
She didn’t tell me.
She didn’t even try.
All those nights—those messages that never came. I thought she was dead. Iletmyself believe she was dead.
But she was here.
With him.
Withour son.
I should be angry. Iwantto be. I want to tear through this goddamn station and demand answers, tear down the banners and make her say it—to my face, in her voice, not behind a podium or a security wall.
But I don’t move.
Because I can’t.
Not yet.
I watch as she steps back, press smiling into her face again, hands gentle on the boy’s shoulders.
She’s protecting him.
