I don’t stop.
But I listen.
“That’s not our problem,” the second one says after a moment, though his tone lacks conviction. “That’s command-level. We don’t?—”
“It becomes our problem when we’re the ones getting shot at,” the first cuts in, sharper now, then reins himself back just enough to keep from drawing attention. “You don’t think Combine’s been trying to get inside this crew for months?”
A small, humorless exhale.
“They’ve been trying for years.”
“And you think they just stopped?”
The silence that follows answers that.
I pass them without looking directly, my reflection sliding faintly across the polished surface of the wall.
But inside, the pieces are already aligning.
Combine doesn’t move like that without information.
Not this precise.
Not this fast.
Which means?—
I take the next turn without hesitation, moving deeper into the lower levels where the ship’s hum is louder, less filtered, where the vibration travels more directly through the floor and into my bones.
There’s a leak.
Not speculation.
Not possibility.
Fact.
And if there’s a leak, then everything else changes.
Because this isn’t just about Tyrok’s decision anymore.
This is about someone feeding the enemy.
I exhale slowly, letting the realization settle into something usable instead of reactive, my mind already shifting into pattern recognition, into observation, into selection.
Who benefits?
Who has access?
Who has motive?
The list isn’t long.
It never is.
I slow near a junction, resting my hand briefly against the console there as if checking something routine, but really I’m watching the movement around me, tracking who moves where, who looks at what, who avoids what.
Fear looks different depending on the person.
