Chapter 1 #2
“Why me?” I ask again, quieter this time. “You could have flagged anyone. There were dozens of civilians in that line.”
“You are not anyone.”
“Flattering.”
“You are statistically anomalous.”
“That’s worse.”
The silence stretches. It’s not empty. It’s heavy, layered with things he’s not saying and things I don’t know how to ask. I become acutely aware of how close he is to the door, how his gaze tracks me when I move, how he never once looks away completely.
I pace the length of the room, fingers brushing the wall panel. Smooth. Warm. Responsive. I could probably access the interface if I tried—but I don’t. Not yet. He’s watching too closely.
“You ever get tired of standing?” I ask.
“No.”
“Ever sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“No.”
“Then why stay?”
His eyes flicker—something like surprise this time. “Because if I leave, others may come.”
“And they’d be worse?”
“They would not hesitate.”
That lands. I swallow.
“So you’re the lesser evil.”
“If you prefer that framing.”
I stop pacing. Face him fully. “Do you?”
He considers again. Gods, he really does that a lot. “No.”
“What do you prefer?”
He meets my eyes. Holds them. “Necessary.”
The word settles into my chest like a stone. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… inevitable.
I sigh and scrub a hand over my face. “Okay. Fine. You’re necessary. I’m anomalous. The system’s unhappy. Congratulations, we’re all miserable.”
“You are not miserable,” he says.
I snort. “You don’t know that.”
“I am observing you.”
“Observation isn’t understanding.”
“Correct.”
The admission throws me. I wasn’t expecting agreement.
“Then what are you doing?” I ask softly.
His voice lowers. “Learning.”
Another silence. This one sharper.
“You’re dangerous,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Yes.”
“At least you own it.”
“Ownership implies choice.”
I stare at him. “You don’t think you have one?”
“I think choice is rarely as free as humans believe.”
There it is again. That gentle disconnect. That sense that he’s looking at the world from somewhere just a few degrees off from mine.
“Humans,” I echo. “So what are you, exactly?”
He pauses. Longer than before. The lights hum. Somewhere beyond the walls, a distant mechanical thrum vibrates through the floor.
“Vakutan,” he says finally.
I blink. “That’s… not Coalition.”
“No.”
“Alliance?”
“Yes.”
My pulse jumps. “Then why are you here?”
“To prevent escalation.”
“And isolating civilians does that?”
“Sometimes.”
I shake my head. “You’re really bad at reassuring people.”
“I am not trained for reassurance.”
“That much is clear.”
Despite myself, a smile tugs at my mouth. I don’t fully trust it. Don’t trust him. But something about the way he admits his limitations, flat and unembellished, disarms me in ways I don’t like.
I sit on the edge of the bed again, exhaustion finally catching up. My limbs feel heavy. My eyes burn. I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling.
“Are you going to watch me sleep?” I ask.
“If you sleep.”
“That’s creepy.”
“I am aware humans find it unsettling.”
“So… stop?”
He hesitates. Just a fraction. “No.”
I laugh weakly. “At least you’re honest.”
“Yes.”
The room settles around us, tension humming like a live wire. I close my eyes—not sleeping, not really. Just resting them. I feel his gaze like pressure on my skin. Not invasive. Not gentle. Just present.
And somewhere beneath the anger, beneath the fear, curiosity sparks—small, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
Because whatever he is… he’s not behaving like a pawn.
And that makes him the most unsettling thing in this room.
I sit down on the spartan sofa to take a load off. I don’t mean to fall asleep.
I don’t even realize I have until I jolt awake, heartbeat hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My hands clench the edge of the mattress before I remember where I am. Sterile room. Gray walls. No windows. Cold air that never changes temperature. Tatek. Right.
He’s still here. I don’t need to open my eyes to confirm it. I feel him—an ambient weight in the room, like gravity’s stronger wherever he stands.
I push myself upright, blinking hard. My tongue tastes stale. “How long?”
“Seventy-two minutes.”
That’s somehow worse than I expected. I comb fingers through my hair, trying to make sense of the dull throb behind my eyes. The last time I slept that deeply, I was drunk off station-issue synth cider and a bad breakup. This wasn’t that. This was… safe. Which doesn’t make sense.
Tatek doesn’t move from his post by the door. It’s like he’s trying to blend into the bulkhead. I can’t decide if that’s a strategy or just how he exists. When I meet his gaze, he blinks once. Just once.
“You ever blink twice?” I ask, voice rough.
He doesn’t answer.
I rise to my feet, slower than I mean to, and stretch. My joints pop in protest. The air in here’s too dry. I want to be irritated, but it’s hard to hold onto anger when exhaustion still clings to my skin.
“You ever sleep?” I ask again, softer this time.
“Not while on assignment.”
“So… never?”
His head tilts, almost imperceptibly. “I rest when required.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It is efficient.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
This time, something shifts in his expression. Not enough to name. But enough to notice.
I step toward the wall screen and tap it. It flickers to life—basic access only. News feeds, time index, station map. I try to request outbound communication and get an access denial. Not unexpected. Still irritating.
“What’s the point of a ‘temporary housing unit’ if I can’t even call out?” I mutter.
“You are being held under provisional restrictions.”
I turn toward him slowly. “Still not arrested though, right?”
“No.”
“Then I want to speak to a Coalition liaison.”
“That request has been noted.”
“And ignored.”
“For now.”
I stare at him, arms crossed. “You’re really bad at lying.”
“I do not lie.”
I laugh again. It’s becoming a problem, this impulse to test him. “Fine. Let’s try truth, then. What happens if I push back?”
“You will escalate your classification tier.”
“Meaning what, exactly? More guards? Fewer rights? Different flavor of walls?”
“Closer observation.”
I raise a brow. “Closer than you already are?”
He blinks. Just once. No answer.
I should be furious. Part of me is. The bigger part, though, is busy trying to figure out why. Why this room. Why him. Why now. Something about this doesn’t line up—not with the logs, not with the manifest, not with anything the Coalition’s been pretending to be lately.
“You’ve got orders,” I say. “But you’re not executing them like a drone. That means you’re either off-script, or improvising. Which is worse?”
He doesn't speak, but something flickers in his eyes. Maybe surprise. Maybe approval. It’s hard to tell when someone’s been trained to have a poker face carved from stone.
He takes one deliberate step toward me. Not enough to threaten. Enough to shift the air between us.
“I am adjusting.”
“To what?”
“You.”
My mouth goes dry. “That’s a little vague for someone who hates metaphor.”
His gaze drops to my hands. I realize I’ve clenched them. I exhale, loosen my fists.
“You think I’m dangerous?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then why the hell am I in a bedroom and not a cell?”
He hesitates. And that alone tells me more than words would have.
“You’re waiting,” I whisper. “You want to see what I’ll do.”
“That is not untrue.”
“But not the whole truth.”
Another long silence. Then: “There is debate surrounding your intent.”
“Debate?” I laugh, sharp. “Let me guess—some files say I’m a threat, some say I’m harmless, and nobody wants to admit they screwed up?”
He doesn’t deny it.
I walk past him toward the far corner of the room, letting him see I’m not afraid to turn my back.
“Well, let me clear it up for you, Commander. I’m neither.
I’m not a martyr, and I’m not a pawn. I’m a data analyst who flagged something I wasn’t supposed to see, and now I’m caught in some stupid power play dressed up in peacekeeping colors. ”
When I turn back, he’s watching me with that same unreadable stillness. “What did you flag?”
I hesitate. It’s the first time he’s asked me a real question. Not a probe. Not a test. Just… curiosity.
“Shipping discrepancies,” I say. “Aid manifests that didn’t match consumption logs. Civilian reclassifications with no audit trail. Holonet interference that wasn’t regional. Small things. But patterned.”
He nods slowly. “The pattern implies intent.”
“Yes. And intent implies danger.”
“Danger,” he echoes, “can be difficult to define.”
“Only if you’re the one causing it.”
His jaw tightens. Not a lot. But it’s something.
I step closer. “Why do you care?”
He looks at me. Really looks.
“Because intent,” he says quietly, “is how war begins again.”
The words land like a drop in still water. Ripples spreading. Unspoken things moving underneath.
I exhale. My head is starting to hurt again.
“I need a shower,” I mutter.
He nods once. Doesn’t offer to leave.
I hesitate. “You gonna stand there while I strip?”
“I can turn.”
That makes me laugh for real. “Wow. Chivalry and surveillance. What a combo.”
“I am not surveilling you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“You are… readable.”
I blink. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It is an observation.”
“Right. Of course it is.”
I move toward the side panel where I’m guessing the fresher unit is hidden. It slides open without resistance, revealing a narrow stall, towels sealed in sterile wrap, and a pale blue light that hums like a low-grade engine. I step inside, but not before glancing back at him.
He’s turned around. True to his word.
But he’s listening.
I can feel it in the set of his shoulders. The tilt of his head. The tension in the air that doesn’t fade even when the water starts to fall.
And that’s what gets me.
Not the orders.
Not the lockdown.
Him.