The room settles around the decision without forgiving it.
I gather the folio, lock it into the inner cabinet, then key the cabinet to my biometric and an offline mechanical override because at this point I trust nothing that glows.
When I turn back, Rhyx is still at the table, still watching me with that infuriating steadiness that makes me feel both less alone and more seen than I know what to do with.
“Well,” I say, because apparently I can’t bear too much sincerity without wanting to throw furniture. “That’s a disgusting little epilogue.”
“It may not be the epilogue.”
I grimace. “Don’t say that.”
He almost smiles. “You prefer false endings?”
“No. I prefer endings that stop developing extra legislative tentacles.”
“That seems reasonable.”
I come back to the table and take the chair beside him this time instead of across from him.
The apartment is warm. The tea has gone cold. The city keeps moving outside as if nobody up in this building just chose not to set an interstellar government on fire.
I lean into him, just enough to admit I’m tired past language.
After a moment, his arm settles around my shoulders.
Not rescue.
Not absolution.
Just presence.
I close my eyes and let the rain fill the silence.
Tomorrow, the memorial will still stand. The names will still be public. Reform coalitions will keep drafting statutes. Senators will keep lying with better haircuts. Somewhere, in some sealed room, people who once thought themselves careful will have no idea how close their old committee notes came to daylight.
And for now—for now—that secret will live with me.
CHAPTER 36
RHYX
The apartment does not sleep when we do.
It settles. That is different.
Pipes knock softly inside the walls as the heating cycles. Rain keeps working at the windows in patient fingers. Somewhere down in the street grid a late freight hauler moans through a turn, the sound filtered by height and weather until it becomes something almost oceanic. The city beyond the glass is all blurred amber and iron-blue, wet light smeared across the night like someone dragged a sleeve through a painting and called it atmosphere.
Selene fell asleep beside me an hour ago.
Not deeply. Not peacefully. More like her body finally lost the argument her mind kept trying to win. She is on her side facing the dark, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting low over the curve under the blanket with that same absent protective gesture she does when she thinks no one is noticing. Her breathing is even now, but I know better than to mistake even breathing for ease.
I am sitting at the table in the next room with the apartment lights kept low, the cabinet locked, and the Senate packet still burning holes through my head.
I should leave it alone.
I know that.
Instead I am staring at a blank disclosure form projected above my slate, the cursor blinking at me like accusation with punctuation.
