“We need to move you off-station,” he says. Softer now. “Evacuate to a safe location. That man—Garokk—is dangerous.”
He says the name like it’s poison. Like it’s a curse from another life.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
Another officer speaks up from the corner, her voice dry and exhausted. “Ma’am, if they return, we might not have time to get you out. We don’t even know why they were here.”
I do.
I feel it.
He came for me.
Not the mall. Not the chaos.Me.
And when he saw Pyramus—there was something in his face. Not surprise. Not anger. Something else. Something like recognition dressed up in disbelief. My stomach turns over.
What does he think?
What does he know?
I shake my head, hard. “I need full footage of the promenade. Angle coverage. Sound, if you’ve got it.”
“You’re not authorized?—”
“I am Isolde Verrix,Chairwoman of the Syndicate Cultural Trust and primary underwriter of this floating monstrosity. Don’t talk to me about authorization.”
The bald man looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. “We’ll have something sent up.”
“Good. Then maybe we can salvage the hour before this becomes a diplomatic nightmare.”
The stylist sniffles louder. I glance over. Her eyes are red, and she’s gripping that ragged piece of gown like it’s a talisman.
“Get up,” I snap. “You’re not bleeding.”
She startles. Stands.
I’m cruel. I know it. But I don’t care. Cruel is what keeps me upright.
“Isolde,” one of the assistants says, “we have to draft a statement.”
“To say what?” I ask. “That the past walked in through a side door and made us remember we’re all playing dress-up on a sinking ship?”
“Something... palatable,” she offers weakly.
I rub my temples. My bones ache. “We’ll draft it when I can think straight.”
From the far corner, Pyramus tugs again. “Why’d he come here?”
He sounds hurt.
Betrayed.
And I don’t have a neat answer.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Another lie.
