That lands harder than anything else.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
“You’re serious,” he mutters.
“I don’t do this halfway.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head once. “No, you don’t.”
Silence settles again, heavier this time, more final.
“…What do you need?” he asks at last.
I don’t hesitate.
“Access,” I say. “Timing. And no interference.”
He lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“You’re asking me to help you disappear,” he says.
“I’m asking you to help stabilize the system.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, sharp and resigned.
“…Alright,” he says. “But we do this smart.”
“We do this clean,” I correct.
“Same thing,” he mutters.
“No,” I say quietly. “It isn’t.”
He doesn’t argue.
Because he understands the difference.
I turn toward the door, already moving, already shifting into execution instead of planning.
“When?” he asks.
“Soon,” I reply.
“How soon?”
I pause just long enough to answer.
“Before he can stop it.”
And then I’m gone, moving through the corridor with purpose now, everything aligned, every step part of something that doesn’t allow hesitation.
CHAPTER 24
TYROK
Something is wrong.
It isn’t obvious, not in a way I can isolate or name, but it sits under everything like a vibration just out of sync with the rest of the ship, subtle enough that no one else would call it out, sharp enough that I can’t ignore it. The bridge is active, efficient, every station occupied, every system running at elevated capacity as we prepare for contact, but the rhythm is off, like a machine that still functions but no longer aligns cleanly with itself.
