When I open them, I look at Saal. “You’re offering her safety as a bargaining chip.”
“I’m offering you a path that reduces collateral,” he says, irritated now. “That’s what command is—calculating collateral.”
The room goes very still.
I can’t stop the bitter laugh that escapes me. “You hear yourself?”
Saal’s face hardens. “Don’t.”
“No,” I say, leaning forward, voice low but sharp. “Don’t—what? Point out that you’re using the same logic Vol used? Sacrifice civilians for stability? Sacrifice one woman’s future so you can keep a diplomatic narrative neat?”
Saal’s eyes narrow to slits. “That’s not the same.”
“It’s the same shape,” I say. “Different scale.”
He stares at me, breathing controlled. “You’re emotional.”
I bare my teeth slightly, not as threat, as truth. “Yeah. I’m a person. Weird, right?”
His jaw flexes. “Varos?—”
I cut him off. “I’m not taking your deal.”
Saal’s voice drops. “Then she will burn.”
I feel the statement land, heavy and ugly.
I don’t look away. “She’s already burning.”
Silence.
Then, because I can’t keep it inside, because this is the only honest thing I’ve had in years, I say, “She flagged the truth because she believes in procedure. She didn’t do it for me.She did it because the record mattered more than her comfort. If I accept reinstatement and gag myself, I make her courage pointless.”
Saal’s gaze flickers—something like reluctant respect, quickly buried.
“You’re choosing her,” he says.
“I’m choosing the truth,” I correct. “She’s just the one paying for it first.”
He exhales sharply and looks down at his compad, tapping once more.
Another document appears, this one titled:
RENUNCIATION OF REINSTATEMENT — CIVILIAN STATUS DECLARATION
My own name sits at the top, blank signature line beneath.
“I anticipated this,” Saal says, voice clipped. “If you refuse, you sign. You formally renounce reinstatement. You declare intent to pursue civilian status upon resolution. You make it official so no one can claim you were coerced later.”
I stare at the document.
It feels like stepping off a ledge, even though the ground beneath me has been gone for a long time.
I lift my bound hands. “Stylus.”
One of the security officers steps forward and places a stylus in my claws with careful distance, like I’m radioactive.
The stylus is small, made for human hands, but it responds to pressure.
