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“Before this work cycle.”

“Who told you?”

He shifted again. “Administrative notification.”

“What did it say?”

“That Sera’n had been reassigned and laboratory oversight would temporarily transfer to Pio’tren.”

I looked back at the unfinished samples sitting on his counter, still sealed, still waiting. “Did it say he knew?”

Merik’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Did it say Sera’n requested reassignment? Was summoned? Was transferred? Anything?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know he was reassigned?”

“The notification said so.”

I let out a long breath through my nose. Right. Zunatorian bureaucracy. If a glowing screen said a thing had happened, apparently that was enough for everyone except me.

I stepped toward Sera’n’s tray.

“Do not touch that.” Merik’s voice cut across the lab, and I stopped mid-reach. Not the flat, routine tone he used for everything else. This was different—clipped, deliberate.

“Why?”

“The samples are restricted.”

“They weren’t restricted yesterday.”

He looked at the floor. Just for a second, but it was enough.

“Merik.”

“I have told you what I know.”

“No. You’ve told me what somebody told you.” He didn’t answer that, and I lowered my voice, leaning closer. “Was Sera’n here when you left yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

He looked at the door before answering. The exact same movement Sera’n had made the day before—that quick check over his shoulder. Cold crept down my spine.

“He remained after you left.”

“Doing what?”

“I do not know.”

“You worked with him.”

“I had my own tasks.” His hands stayed busy with his seals, not looking up.

“Merik.”