He almost smiles.
The room is lit by one floor lamp near the sofa and the pool of light over the table, leaving the corners softer, duskier. Our apartment always feels most honest at this hour—papers spread where life is happening, one of Rhyx’s work jackets over the back of a chair, my notes stacked in unstable towers that he keeps pretending not to reorganize when I’m not looking. The windows hold the city at a distance. The table holds everything closer than I’d like.
My compad vibrates with another public-feed alert.
I hate myself a little for opening it.
The memorial preview channels are already spiraling.
Support groups posting route maps, mutual-aid numbers, instructions for maintaining calm if counter-protesters show up.
Hostile accounts calling the dedication “revisionist theater.”
One particularly inventive commentator has written:ARDENT WILL WEAPONIZE GRIEF ON CAMERA AGAIN.
Charming.
I scroll farther.
REMEMBER THE CEASEFIRE. DON’T LET THEM REOPEN THE WAR.
SAY THEIR NAMES. ALL OF THEM.
NO PEACE BUILT ON CORRIDOR BONES.
TRUTH TRAITORS OUT OF KIRELL.
The words blur together after a while, becoming less language than weather—gusts of anger and devotion and projection from people who have decided I am either a necessary witness or the human embodiment of instability.
I set the compad down harder than I mean to.
Rhyx hears the sharp click against the table. “Bad.”
“Mixed.”
He nods as if he expected that. He did. Of course he did.
“There are support groups coordinating attendance,” I say, scrolling back through the feeds because apparently I enjoy raising my blood pressure recreationally. “Civilian reform networks. Family circles. Student monitors from the archive coalitions.”
“And hostile commentary.”
“Oh, tons. Demonstrations are already being planned at the memorial site.”
I angle the compad toward him. A route map glows up between us, overlaid with projected crowd clusters and color-coded sentiment markers.
Rhyx steps closer, reading in silence.
He smells faintly of soap, wet air, and the resin-clean tang of the structural sealant he was working with earlier. There’s sawdust still caught in one cuff of his shirt. I have become alarmingly fond of this kind of detail. Ridiculous, frankly.
He reaches past me to bring up the civilian security briefing on his own slate. The tablet light catches along the silver ridges at his wrists and the old scarring near one knuckle. His voice stays low and practical.
“The primary family corridor remains the safest entry route. Civilian marshals only. No visible military presence.” He zooms the map, studying the site approach lines. “If the support group cluster holds here”—he taps the eastern perimeter—“and thehostile demonstration remains outside the second barrier, there is enough space to prevent compression.”
“That’s a hell of an if.”
“Yes.”
He enlarges the secondary exit path. “This is our departure route.”
