Chapter 33 Lark
Lark
Location: In Transit — Police Vehicle
Time: Later
They’re polite.
That’s how you know it’s serious.
No cuffs.
No force.
No raised voices.
Just distance.
Carefully maintained.
Like I’m something fragile.
Or dangerous in a way they don’t fully understand.
The door shuts with a soft, final click.
I sit in the back of the vehicle, hands free in my lap, posture straight, eyes forward.
Observed.
Always observed.
The cameras are everywhere.
Mounted on the dash.
Outside the vehicle.
Media vans pacing the convoy like sharks.
Someone tipped them off.
Not the enemy.
Not directly.
This is cleaner than that.
This is internal.
Someone inside the system opened the door—and let the world watch it happen.
I turn my head slightly, looking out the window.
Flashes of light.
Reflections.
Buildings passing too quickly to study—but I try anyway.
I catalog everything.
Route.
Timing.
Escorts.
Vehicles.
Because control isn’t gone.
It’s just shifted.
Aaron is in another car.
I felt the moment they separated us.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t fight.
He knew.
Same as me.
That wasn’t logistics.
That was strategy.
They want separation.
They want distance.
They want a story where I stand alone.
They don’t get that.
Not really.
The vehicle slows.
Then stops.
Doors open.
Voices.
More cameras.
More eyes.
I step out on my own.
Head up.
Shoulders steady.
Not because I’m unafraid—
But because fear is what they’re waiting for.
Inside, the station is colder.
Quieter.
Controlled in a different way.
They move me into a room.
White walls.
Table.
Chair.
Recording equipment already active.
No introductions.
No delay.
The questions come immediately.
Fast.
Layered.
Designed to overlap.
“Dr. London, did you develop an unauthorized predictive model—”
“Who did you share the data with—”
“Are you aware of the international implications—”
I don’t answer.
Not yet.
I listen.
Because questions tell you more than answers ever could.
Then—
The door opens.
And everything shifts.
I don’t look at first.
I don’t need to.
I already know.
Something in my chest drops anyway.
“Director London,” the man says.
I look up.
And there he is.
Peter.
Not family.
Never was.
But closer than most.
He funded my early research.
Backed me when others hesitated.
Taught me how to navigate rooms like this.
Or so I thought.
“Peter?” I whisper.
His expression softens.
Almost regretful.
“I told them you’d come quietly.”
The words don’t land right.
They don’t fit.
The room tilts slightly—not physically, but enough that something inside me shifts out of place.
“You,” I say.
It comes out quieter than I expect.
Sharper too.
“I tried to stop this,” he says gently. “But it’s bigger than both of us now.”
No.
That’s not what this is.
That’s not regret.
That’s justification.
And suddenly—
I see it.
The timing.
The coordination.
The narrative.
The access.
This wasn’t just an attack.
It was a transition.
A transfer of control.
A handoff.
And he—
He was the one who made sure it happened clean.
My pulse steadies.
Not panic.
Not anger.
Clarity.
Because now I know exactly what I’m facing.