“I’m in a position to observe,” I shoot back. “And what I’m observing doesn’t match your conclusion.”
“And I’m in a position to tell you to stand down,” he replies, his voice dropping just enough to carry authority without raising volume.
The space around us tightens, the surrounding personnel going quiet in that way people do when they sense something they shouldn’t be witnessing.
“Lieutenant,” he adds, more quietly now, the edge still there beneath the control. “That’s an order.”
The words settle heavy.
For a moment, I consider pushing it further, letting everything I’m thinking come out exactly as it sits in my chest, consequences be damned.
Instead, I exhale slowly and step back.
Not because I agree.
Because this isn’t where I win this.
“Secure the area,” Dadams continues, already turning away like the matter is settled. “Document the incident. Cause of death: accidental contact with border barrier.”
The words feel wrong the second they’re spoken.
Like they don’t belong anywhere near what’s hanging in front of me.
“Yes, sir,” someone answers.
I don’t.
I stand there, watching as the process begins, cameras coming out, notes being taken, everything clean and procedural in a way that makes my stomach turn.
Across the fence, movement.
I don’t look immediately.
I feel it first.
When I finally lift my gaze, Hrask is already there.
Closer than usual.
Still in a way that isn’t casual anymore.
His eyes move over the scene with the same precision mine did, tracking angles, details, inconsistencies, and when his gaze meets mine, I don’t have to say anything.
He already knows.
He steps closer to the fence, his voice low enough to stay between us.
“They staged it,” he says.
I nod once, the motion small but firm.
“Execution,” I reply.
“Too clean,” he says.
“They want it to read like defection,” I add, my voice quieter now.
“Or incompetence,” he counters.
