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He looked down at my hand.

Then at me.

I let go.

“Sorry.”

He lowered his voice. “Do not touch anything else.”

The words were sharper than anything he had ever said to me in the lab.

I stared at him.

Sera’n had corrected me before. Often. He was irritatingly precise about procedure and had once made me relabel an entire storage tray because my handwriting had been “needlessly decorative.”

But he had never spoken to me like I was the danger.

“What happens if I do?” I asked, my voice lower than I intended. His gaze lifted to mine, and for a second something passed across his face—a flicker of tension around his eyes, a subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth—that I didn’t recognize. Then I did. It was fear, sharp and unmistakable, but not for himself. For me. That realization settled in my stomach like cold stone.

“Who changed my record?”

“I do not know.”

“Can you tell?”

“No.” His answer came too quickly, clipped and final.

“That was fast.”

“Because the authorization code is restricted.” The words left his mouth like he regretted them instantly.

“So someone with higher access changed it.”

He shut his eyes briefly, as if physically pained. “I did not say that.”

I stared at him, waiting for the denial that didn’t come. When he finally met my eyes again, I shook my head. “You keep saying that like it helps.”

“Talia—”

“No. My file was changed. Other dead warriors have duplicate files. Some of those duplicates suddenly have human compatibility matches that aren’t in the original records, and now you’re telling me whoever changed mine had restricted access.”

His gaze shifted toward the door again.

There. Again.

I lowered my voice without deciding to. “Who are you worried about?”

“No one.”

“That’s a lie.”

His face hardened, and I took a step closer. “You told me once Zunatorians aren’t good liars.”

“I told you warriors tend to consider lying inefficient.”

“Apparently scientists are more flexible.”

His mouth flattened. I waited. He said nothing.