The cryptographer is already cross-checking code strings. “Not idiots,” he says. “Careful people making survivable paperwork for obscene authority.”
I look at him. “Thank you. Exactly.”
Serr lifts her eyes from the projection. “These notes remain inside this cell unless continuity failure triggers otherwise.”
“Agreed,” I say.
Pavel adds, “We can use the framework evidence to tighten statutory bans.”
Talis says, “And trace-lock committee emergency authorities.”
The cryptographer says, “And build public auto-release conditions if future threshold language appears in sealed review.”
There it is.
Not justice. Not full exposure. Infrastructure.
Ugly, necessary infrastructure.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear someone else say it out loud until the tension in my shoulders eases by one thin, grudging inch.
Serr closes the folio and reseals it under cell custody. “You’ve done the right irresponsible thing.”
I blink at her. “That’s the nicest anyone’s ever insulted me.”
Pavel snorts.
Rhyx’s hand brushes once, very lightly, against the back of mine under the table. Not enough for the room to see. Enough for me to register.
We spend the next two hours in language.
That sounds dull. It isn’t. Language is where power launders itself, and if you know how to read for the bleach, it becomes combat.
We go through draft prohibitions on casualty threshold authorizations. Emergency committee trace requirements. Archive mirroring triggers. Civilian continuity release locks. Senate subgroup disclosure conditions tied to dormant wartime authorities. I fight over three clauses, threaten to walk over one, and tell Pavel his wording sounds like a frightened consultant wearing a moral emergency as a necktie.
He takes it surprisingly well.
By the time we leave, the rain has let up and the city looks washed but not cleansed.
That feels about right.
We don’t go straight home.
We stop at the residence outside the capital ring first—the modest one with the reinforced shelving and the stupidly tender cabinet latches and the narrow patch of ground behind it where green things are trying their best. The air out here smells like wet dirt, cooling metal, and somebody nearby cooking onions in too much oil. It’s almost enough to make the world feel local.
Rhyx unlocks the door and holds it for me.
Inside, the house is half-finished and more honest for it. One room still needs paint. The support rails in the bath gleam too new against older tile. The low storage bench beneath the window is sanded smooth and waiting for use. In the smaller room—the one I keep pretending not to mentally call the baby’s room—the afternoon light comes in soft and silver through the damp glass.
I stand in the doorway and let myself look.
The child-safe latches are absurdly neat.
Of course they are.
Rhyx comes up behind me, not touching, just close enough that I can feel the warmth of him at my back.
“You’re checking my workmanship,” he says.
