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Brevan and Carys went next. Brevan talked for both of them until Carys cut across him with, “He’s alive. That’s the report,” and the hatch closed on Rylos laughing once despite the shoulder.

Varrick and Sabine discussed the decommission sequence until Rylos broke in, dry through the fatigue: “You called it plumbing.” Kallum went in last of the men and stayed a long time without a sound. On his way out, he rested his hand on the door frame for one second before letting go.

Anhara paused at my bench on her way out. She looked at the case at my feet, and at my hands, quiet in my lap after an hour of effort.

“They just move over,” she said. “Told you.”

The corridor quieted. Beneath the smell of antiseptic lingered scorched armor. He was theirs first, I thought. He and his five brothers had six years behind them. Their mates already knew how to belong here. I had walked in from the enemy less than a week ago.

The hatch cycled. Tamsin stood in it, sleeves rolled, and looked at me with the specific weariness of a medic whose patient has stopped cooperating.

“He’s asking for you,” she said. Her glance took in the case and my hands. “Are you ready?”

I nodded.

“The shoulder’s mending. Vinduthi tissue, clean plasma wound, no complications; he’ll have full use in a few days. I’m telling you because he’ll say ‘fine’ and you deserve a real answer.”

I stood, stiff from the bench, and lifted the case by reflex. Then I set it down again. It could wait here among people who understood what it was.

Rylos was propped against the raised bed, shoulder wrapped, gray skin ashen at the edges. The dressing covered part of the violet line down his chest. He watched me cross the quiet med bay, and I knew he had been waiting for me.

He had held my attention across briefing tables, through gunfire, with his mouth on me. Now he seemed unsure how to begin. I stopped beside the bed.

“The case?” he asked.

“Outside. I wanted to come in with my hands free.”

His good hand opened on the sheet. “Come here, then.”

I kept my hands at my sides and asked the question I had carried from the colonnade.

“You stepped in front of me.” My voice held.

“Twelve rifles. You had the plan; I’d read the plan; the plan worked without you in front of me. You could have held position. You could have taken your shot at Aarvyd when the room broke. You let Aarvyd hear what I mean to you when you shouted.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I made my choice.” No hesitation. No attempt to turn it into a tactical answer.

“I’d make it again. I went over it while Tamsin worked; it’s what I do instead of sleeping. Every time, I’m between you and the rifles. I don’t regret that.”

“And to me?”

“To you I owe a different apology entirely.” He shifted higher against the bed and winced. I waited.

“I kept the guard after your intelligence checked out,” he said.

“The first checks were necessary. After that, I had to decide whether I trusted you. I kept the cameras running because I was afraid of what that trust would ask of me. You had to demand a seat I should have offered. Calling you an asset let me avoid admitting how much I wanted you to stay. I should have ended the surveillance sooner, and I should have told you why. I’m sorry.”

“What would you have given me if you’d trusted me?”

“The freedom of the ship once your archive checked out. Privacy in your own room. A seat at the table before you had to ask. And I should have used your name. Lika. It was easier to talk about an asset than to let you hear what you meant to me.”

He had named the guard, the monitoring, and the word itself without asking me to excuse any of it. That mattered.

“Continue,” I said. It was all I could manage.