“Either way, same story,” I say.
Our attention shifts back to each other, the understanding settling into place without needing to be spoken out loud.
“They’re already writing it up,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “We would too.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.”
Behind me, the documentation continues, voices low, controlled, already shaping the narrative into something it isn’t.
“They’re erasing him,” I say.
“They’re rewriting him,” Hrask replies.
That hits harder.
I look back at Tury, at the way he’s been positioned, displayed like something meant to be seen, meant to be interpreted a certain way.
My throat tightens.
“We were too late,” I say.
Hrask’s gaze changes, something darker settling behind it. The weight of that sits between us, heavier than anything else so far.
I straighten slightly, forcing my focus back into something usable.
“Then we don’t stop,” I say.
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
“No,” he says. “We don’t.”
Behind me, Dadams orders the body removed, his voice steady, already moving on.
I don’t look back at him.
I don’t need to.
Because I already know what he’s going to write.
And I already know it’s a lie.
When I turn back to Hrask, he’s still watching me.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “You push this too hard, you end up next to him.”
I hold his gaze, the weight of everything pressing in.
“Then we don’t get caught,” I reply.
Something alters in his expression, sharper now, more focused.
“Yeah,” he says. “We don’t.”
The fence hums between us, steady and unchanged.
