I down another swig. Toss the bottle. It clinks, rolls, disappears into shadow.
I lean back. Let the darkness take me.
And whisper to no one, “You never even said goodbye.”
CHAPTER 32
NOVA
"These numbers don’t make sense."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, low and clipped. I’m hunched over Stark’s console, the data flickering across the glass like it’s mocking me. My brows furrow tighter the deeper I go. There’s this sick, crawling sensation threading through my ribs, a creeping certainty I really don’t want to admit yet.
Because I’m not wrong.
I know what I’m looking at.
Three back-to-back wormhole trials. Each tagged successful. And yet the numbers—they don’t just stretch probability, they snap it in half.
“This one reports a 97.3% containment stability,” I mutter, squinting, “but the emitter calibration was off by nearly two percent. That shouldn't even register above ninety. And this one—” I flick my fingers to scroll, fast, irritated “—this one shows phase resonance echoing out of sync but still marked green.”
A chill trails down my spine. Not from the room—Stark’s office is warm, almost too warm—but from the numbers.
They’re too clean.
Too perfect.
“Problem?”
I don’t jump. I’ve been expecting him.
Stark leans against the doorway like he’s just wandered in from a power lunch instead of slinking in unannounced after hours. His white coat is spotless. His expression, unreadable save for the smile that's just a shade too wide.
I turn, slowly, thumb still hovering over the data.
“These containment logs,” I say, cool. “They don’t track with the physical limits you briefed me on last quarter.”
He steps further in, uninvited. Casual. Like he owns the oxygen.
“I’m always improving the models. That’s the whole point of innovation,” he says, voice smooth as synth-silk. “What you’re looking at is bleeding edge. I wouldn’t expect everyone to grasp it immediately.”
Everyone.
He means me.
“I grasp math just fine,” I say. My tone doesn’t rise. Doesn’t need to. “And I know when it’s been massaged.”
That gets him. His smile twitches at the corners. Not enough to disappear—Stark would rather choke on his own teeth—but enough to give him away.
“You’re suggesting the logs are falsified?” he asks, like it’s a game. Like he’s waiting for me to flinch.
“I’m suggesting they don’t add up,” I reply.
He walks over like this is nothing. Like we’re going to work it out over lattes and goodwill. “Nova,” he says, all friendly concern, “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate. Dar, the relocation, adjusting back to ops. Maybe your read is just a little... strained right now.”
There it is.
Minimize. Deflect. Personalize.
