“She wouldn’t just disappear,” Vihl says, though there’s no conviction in it.
“No,” I agree.
I’m already moving.
“Pull corridor logs,” I order. “Track her last movement.”
The display shifts, security feeds flickering into place, and I watch them in rapid succession, my focus narrowing as I follow her path.
Lower tier.
Junction.
Vihl’s corridor.
My jaw tightens.
“Expand that,” I say.
The image sharpens.
She enters.
Doesn’t leave.
Not through the main corridor.
“Internal access?” I ask.
“Checking,” the officer replies.
Another pause.
“Restricted hatch access,” he says slowly. “Authorized through command-level override.”
Vihl goes still beside me.
“That’s my clearance,” he says quietly.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t need to.
Because the answer is already there.
Already forming.
Already too late.
“She planned it,” I say.
Not a guess.
Not a theory.
A fact.
The pieces align too cleanly, the timing too precise, the execution too controlled for anything else.
