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I made my face as blank as possible.
Working with Zunatorians had taught me something else.
They weren’t the only ones who could lie badly.
I was pretty sure I was doing an excellent job.
Sera’n clearly disagreed. “Talia.”
“I said okay.”
“You say that differently when you have already decided not to listen.”
I stared. “That is wildly insulting.”
“It is accurate,” he said, and I almost smiled. Almost.
Then he reached past me and closed every open archive window. The ordinary lab interface returned—specimen queues, processing schedules. Nothing suspicious, nothing dangerous. Nothing changed, except everything had.
He started toward the storage room, then stopped. “Talia.”
I looked up. For a moment, he seemed about to say something else.
“What?”
His gaze moved over me like he was committing something to memory—a thought so ridiculous I almost dismissed it. Then he said, “Go home when you finish that tray.”
“You already sent me home early.”
“Then consider me consistent.”
“Sera’n—”
“For once, do not argue.”
That made me stare at him. He almost smiled—almost—then turned away and returned to his workstation.
I returned to my station and tried to work.
For the next twenty minutes, I labeled vials, reconciled samples, and pretended I wasn’t thinking about my altered file.
It didn’t work.
Every number looked suspicious now.
Every authorization code made me wonder who had entered it.
Every deceased warrior made me wonder if his record had another version buried somewhere beneath the one I could see.
And Sera’n wasn’t working normally either.
He moved around the lab too much.
Checked the doors twice.
Dropped a sample cap.
Sera’n never dropped anything.
