He mutters something into his comm. “Any fatalities?”
A drone scans. “No confirmed fatalities. Multiple severe injuries.”
The officer looks at me differently then. “You did all this and killed nobody?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I do not answer.
Because Evie asked.
They march me through the zoo while emergency lights flash across the rain. Injured gang members groan under medtechattention. One points at me and starts babbling about a monster. Another vomits near the ticket booth. The broken holo-marsupial above the entrance flickers its smiling face over the entire scene, welcoming no one to anything.
A small crowd has gathered beyond the police barrier by the time they put me into the transport. People whisper. Some lift compads to record. I lower my head, not out of shame at what I did to the gang, but because I know recordings travel. Evie may see them. Halo may see them. The bakery may pay for the shadow I cast.
The holding cell at Lark Street precinct is too small.
That is the first problem. The second is the light. It is white, sterile, and constant, buzzing overhead with bureaucratic cruelty. The cell smells of disinfectant, old sweat, metal benches, and the faint ozone tang of force barriers. Rainwater drips from my coat onto the floor. My wrists remain cuffed in front of me now, a concession after the booking officer realized the chair used for processing would not survive if I sat in it with my arms forced behind my back.
The bench supports my weight grudgingly.
Across the corridor, a drunk human sleeps with his mouth open. Farther down, someone curses in three languages. A police clerk argues with an automated intake system that keeps misidentifying a detained Alzhon as industrial equipment.
I sit with my elbows on my knees and stare at the cuffs.
My cheek has stopped bleeding. The cut will close soon. The bruises beneath my scales will fade. The old knife nick between my ribs burns when I breathe, but it is shallow. The gang members will live. Ron will live with a torn nose, broken pride, and hatred sharpened into purpose.
That should satisfy me.
It does not.
I did not kill them. I kept my promise. I measured every strike, swallowed every lethal instinct, and left the Poison Memories breathing in the ruins of their own theater.
Yet I am here.
And Evie will be called.
I gave the officer her name because when he asked for a contact, hers was the only one my mouth would form. Al would have come if someone found him, perhaps, but he has no credits. Darlene might come, but the precinct would treat her as nuisance before ally. Evie should not have to come.
I named her anyway.
Selfish.
The word tastes worse than blood.
I imagine her receiving the call. Her face going pale. Her hand tightening around that cracked compad. The repair money from the bakery already wounded, now bleeding into bail. The customers whispering. Darlene cursing my name. Evie stepping into the rain because I brought trouble to her again.
My hands curl around the cuffs until the metal hums.
The force barrier buzzes as an officer walks past. “Don’t even think about it.”
I release my grip.
He continues down the corridor.
I lean back against the wall and close my eyes.
