He gestures toward the door. “Dismissed.”
I leave before I say something that would make my life easier for the next five seconds and impossible for the next five years.
The corridor outside feels brighter, harsher. The lights sting.
I take three steps, then the world tilts.
Not dramatically, not like collapsing in a movie, but subtly, like the floor has decided to become water for a heartbeat. My vision narrows, edges darkening, and my stomach lurches with a nausea that rises so fast I barely have time to clamp my teeth.
“Whoa,” I mutter, reaching for the wall.
My hand finds the console outside the office—a recessed station used for security check-ins—and I grip it hard enough that my knuckles blanch. Cold metal bites into my palm. Sweat prickles along the back of my neck, sudden and clammy.
A security officer turns sharply. “Liaison?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because that’s what you say when you’re not fine and you refuse to become a liability.
The hallway swims slightly. The air smells too strong, like antiseptic turned into a weapon. I swallow hard, and the taste of bile floods my mouth.
The officer steps closer, voice firmer. “Mandatory wellness protocol. You’re visibly unstable.”
“I said I’m fine,” I repeat, but the words wobble on the second syllable, betraying me.
He doesn’t argue. He taps his compad. “Medical screening. Now.”
“I don’t have time?—”
“You don’t have a choice,” he replies, not unkindly, just factually, and his hand hovers near my elbow as if he’s ready to catch me if I fall. The humiliation of that makes my throat tighten, but the dizziness doesn’t care about pride.
They escort me to tribunal medical, a quiet wing that smells of clean linens and disinfectant and that faint artificial floral note they use to convince anxious people they’re safe. Thelighting is softer here, less punitive, but the softness feels like another kind of control.
A medic meets us at the intake bay, her expression professionally neutral. “Liaison Ardent. Symptoms?”
“Dizziness,” the officer says. “Pallor. Nausea.”
“I’m—” I start.
The medic raises a hand gently. “Let’s just run a scan.”
They guide me into a screening room with a reclined chair and a biometric scanner that arches overhead like a metallic halo. I sit because sitting is easier than arguing, and because my stomach is still rolling like a ship in bad orbit.
The medic fits a sensor patch against my wrist, then another against my neck. The patches are cool, damp, and the touch of them makes my skin crawl.
“Any chance you’re dehydrated?” she asks lightly.
“I drink water,” I mutter.
“Any chance you’re overworked?” she continues.
I give her a look.
She hums softly. “Okay, sure.”
The scanner activates, emitting a faint buzzing tone. A soft light passes over my body in slow bands. The room smells faintly of ozone and antiseptic. My heartbeat sounds loud in my ears.
The medic studies her display, brows drawing together slightly.
“What?” I ask, sharper than intended.
