“Tury wasn’t a defector,” I say, my voice low and sharp.
Dadams exhales slowly, his gaze steady on mine.
“No,” he admits.
“He was flagged,” I continue. “Because he saw something he wasn’t supposed to.”
“Yes.”
My grip tightens.
“Say it,” I demand.
His posture shifts, tension flickering across his expression.
“He identified the breach patterns,” Dadams says. “The manipulated patrol routes, the controlled incursions. He realized they were being orchestrated.”
“By who?” I press.
He doesn’t look away.
“Driscoll,” he says.
The name lands hard enough to knock something loose in my chest, a cold weight settling in where certainty used to sit.
“You signed the report,” I say, my voice tightening. “You called it accidental.”
“I was told what it was going to be,” he replies, something sharper breaking through his control now. “You think I had the authority to override that?”
“You could’ve refused,” I fire back.
“And ended up the same way?” he shoots back. “You think this system allows dissent at that level?”
I stare at him, searching for the crack, the lie, something I can tear apart.
“You’re part of it,” I say.
“I’m contained by it,” he counters, his voice lower now. “There’s a difference.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” I reply.
He exhales, tension bleeding into his posture.
“The evidence system is real,” he says. “The archive, the manipulation logs, the cross-referenced patrol data—it all exists. That’s why it’s buried so deep.”
“Then you’re going to help me dig it out,” I say.
His expression tightens again.
“You’re not getting access without me,” he admits.
“Good,” I reply. “Then you’re coming with me.”
“To where?” he asks.
“To the center,” I answer. “Where they can’t pretend this doesn’t exist.”
He hesitates, something shifting behind his eyes as the reality of that settles in.
