Page 175 of Reaper Said Mine

That is worse.

Across the room, Ursa lifts her damaged compad. Her hand trembles. She notices, clenches it tighter, and begins recording.

“This is Ursa Ramone aboard Guyver Station,” she says, voice steady through force alone. “Emergency developments have occurred during a high-level diplomatic session. Jonathon Zune of the Helios Combine is dead after a direct confrontation with Lord Gnash. Negotiations appear to be collapsing in real time. Multiple delegations are entering emergency posture.”

Every word is careful.

Every word hurts.

She does not soften me. She does not condemn me. She reports.

That is who she is.

That is what I love.

That is what I may have just endangered beyond repair.

The station shakes faintly beneath us as docking clamps lock across the ring. Somewhere outside the chamber, crowds begin to move. Rumor becomes alarm. Alarm becomes instruction. Instruction becomes fear. The story leaves the room before anyone can catch it.

Theryki’s aides hurry toward the side exit under guard. Gobold’s officers cluster around him, hands close to weapons. Wilcox stays where she is, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between me, Ursa, and Zune’s body as if searching for the one move that might keep the entire sector from catching fire.

Vakka approaches me carefully. “Lord.”

“Remove the body,” I say.

Her expression tightens. “Gnash.”

“Remove it.”

“No,” Ursa says.

The room shifts toward her.

She lowers the compad. “Not yet. The scene stays intact until every faction has documented chain of custody.”

Vakka looks at me.

So does everyone else.

I should be angry. I should object. Instead, I nod once because Ursa is right, and because if I cannot undo what I have done, I can at least stop making it worse by trying to control the evidence.

“Scene remains sealed,” I say. “Independent documentation from all delegations. Station security leads physical containment.”

Wilcox exhales. “That may keep us from shooting each other for the next five minutes.”

Gobold glares. “Do not thank him for basic sanity after murder.”

“I am not thanking anyone,” Wilcox snaps. “I am measuring the distance to disaster.”

Skahar’s cane taps once. “Short distance.”

The alarms climb another level.

Vakka’s comm spits overlapping reports. “Crowds forming near diplomatic lifts. Combine channels screaming assassination. Coalition transport requesting immediate departure. Alliance cruiser captain demanding clarification. Merchant captains asking whether the corridor is closed. Narra says if anyone starts a riot near her mess hall, she will poison them with bad stew and claim rationing.”

Even now, even here, Skahar’s mouth twitches.

Mine does not.