At the custody suite entrance, a tribunal officer blocks my path with a polite rigidity.
“Liaison Ardent,” he says, scanning my badge. “Access requires scheduled appointment.”
“I’m scheduled,” I lie, and the lie tastes like acid, but this is what they taught us—procedure is a weapon, and if you’re not willing to use it, you will be used.
He hesitates, then checks his compad. His brow furrows slightly. “I don’t have you?—”
“I was added under expedited review,” I say, and I hate how easily the words come out, like I’ve always been good at sounding official.
He studies my face for a beat too long, then steps aside. “Five minutes.”
“Plenty,” I reply, and my voice is colder than I intend.
The custody corridor smells faintly of antiseptic and recycled air. The lighting is dimmer, the walls matte, the sound dampened as if the building wants to swallow any human noise that might be inconvenient.
An officer leads me to a small interview room—gray composite walls, a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, a recording node embedded in the corner like an unblinking eye. The hum of security fields vibrates faintly under the floor, a constant reminder that this place is designed to contain bodies and truths.
Rhyx Varos is already there, seated, binders glowing faint blue at his wrists. He looks up when I enter, pale gold eyes steady, face carved into controlled calm.
The officer gestures. “Five minutes.”
He shuts the door behind me.
The recording node hums softly.
I don’t sit.
Rhyx’s gaze flicks briefly to the node, then back to me. “You should sit,” he says, voice low.
“I’m fine,” I answer, and the words are nonsense because I’m vibrating with fury.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Something happened.”
“Something always happens,” I snap, then bite down hard on the edge of my own anger. I inhale once, slow, then speak again with deliberate precision. “I filed an internal concern memo about the corrupted secondary file.”
Rhyx’s posture stills. “And?”
“And within hours, the tribunal announces an accelerated sentencing timeline,” I say, and my voice shakes despite my efforts to steady it. “Public interest and diplomatic urgency, they say. As if rushing the outcome makes the truth less messy.”
Rhyx’s jaw tightens. The binders hum faintly as his hands curl against the table. “They are closing the window.”
“Yes,” I say sharply. “They are slamming it shut.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then he exhales slowly. “They do not want you digging.”
“No kidding.”
I finally sit, because if I don’t, I might pace, and pacing looks like instability on record.
For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. The hum of the recording node fills the silence like a reminder of consequence.
Then I lean forward, fingers pressing against the table’s cool alloy, and the question that has been chewing at my ribs since the clarification session forces its way out.
“Why didn’t you contest it?” I ask, voice low but sharp. “Back then. After Kirell. After the war cooled enough for negotiations. Why didn’t you stand up and say, ‘Hey, this corridor shifted, and it wasn’t me’?”
Rhyx’s gaze holds mine, steady, heavy. He does not flinch from the question, which somehow makes it worse.
“Because I didn’t have proof,” he says.
