The transit tube hissed open, and the scent of antiseptic and ozone flooded in. Veyra Toren didn’t need to look up to know where she was. The Judgment’s Hand had its own smell, sterile, clinical, like a mortuary that had forgotten its purpose was supposed to be death, not paperwork. Two armored guards nudged her forward, their grips firm but not bruising. Professional. That was the Dominion way: even betrayal had standards. The interrogation chamber was a featureless cube, the walls lined with dampening foam to swallow sound. A single table, bolted to the deck. Two chairs, one on each side. The lighting was dim, just bright enough to make the shadows feel intentional. Inquisitor Dain sat waiting, his fingers steepled. He hadn’t aged well. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a junior tactical officer under her command, eager and sharp-eyed. Now, his face was a map of tired lines, his dark hair thinned at the temples. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the way he looked at her, not with hatred, not even with satisfaction, but with the quiet disappointment of a man who’d just confirmed something he’d suspected for years. “Captain Toren,” he said, voice smooth as polished durasteel. “Or should I say, former Captain Toren?” She didn’t answer. The cuffs on her wrists were loose enough to let her flex her fingers, tight enough to remind her they were there. Dain exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it had any warmth. “You always did prefer silence to small talk. Fine. Let’s begin with the obvious.” He tapped a datapad, and a holographic display flickered to life between them, a schematic of the Iron Resolve, its hull split open like a gutted fish. The timestamp in the corner read 04:17:22, the exact moment the Harbinger’s torpedoes had struck. “Command log, Iron Resolve, final entry,” Dain said. “Voiceprint confirmation: Veyra Toren, commanding. Direct quote: ‘All batteries, target the Harbinger and fire at will.’” The words hung in the air, flat and damning. Toren stared at them, then at Dain. “That’s not what I said.” “No?” He swiped a finger, and the recording played. Her voice, unmistakable, cold and clear: Fire at will. She flexed her jaw. The words were hers. The cadence was hers. But the order wasn’t. Dain leaned back. “You’re going to tell me the logs were altered.” “They were.” “Convenient.” He tapped the pad again, and the display shifted, a secondary log, this one from the Harbinger’s black box. The same order, the same voice, but this time with a visual feed: her, standing on the Resolve’s bridge, her mouth moving in perfect sync. Fire at will. Her stomach twisted. “That’s not possible. The Harbinger’s comms array was damaged before the engagement. There’s no way they could’ve, ” “Received a live feed?” Dain finished. “No. But someone with access to your ship’s internal cameras could’ve spliced it after the fact.” He tilted his head. “Funny thing about black boxes, Captain. They’re designed to be tamper-proof, but they’re not infallible. Not if you know the right codes.” Toren’s fingers curled into fists. “You’re saying someone in my crew falsified evidence.” “I’m saying the evidence exists.” Dain’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m also saying you had motive. The Harbinger was carrying a high-value prisoner transfer. One you’d personally requested be rerouted to your ship.” She went still. “That transfer was classified.” “Not to me.” He smiled, thin and humorless. “Not anymore.” The deck plates hummed beneath her boots, the only sound in the room. She could hear her own pulse in her ears. “You’re not here to ask questions, Dain. You’re here to deliver a verdict.” “Aren’t I?” He shut off the display. “Tell me something, Captain. When you gave that order, real or not, did you think about the Harbinger’s crew? Or just the prisoner?” The question landed like a blade between her ribs. She knew what he was implying. Knew what the Dominion would assume. But the truth was worse. She had thought about the prisoner. Not because of who he was, but because of what he carried. Dain watched her, waiting. When she didn’t speak, he sighed and stood, straightening his uniform jacket. The movement revealed the edge of a seal stitched into the collar, a silver thread pattern, half-hidden by the fabric. A family crest. His family crest. Veyne’s seal. Toren’s breath caught. Dain noticed her staring. His fingers twitched toward the collar, then stilled. “You recognize it.” “You’re wearing his colors.” “And you’re surprised.” He almost laughed. “After everything, you still think Elias is just some idealistic junior officer?” The name hit her like a physical blow. Elias Veyne. Her former first officer. The man who’d been on the Resolve’s bridge with her when the Harbinger burned. The man who’d survived. Dain’s voice dropped. “He’s the reason you’re here, Toren. Not the logs. Not the black box. Him.” The words settled over her, heavy as a shroud. She should’ve known. Should’ve seen it coming. But then, that was the thing about nooses. You never felt the rope tighten until it was already around your neck. The interrogation chamber’s door hissed shut behind Dain, leaving Toren alone with the flickering afterimage of his seal. The silver threads had been unmistakable, Veyne’s house sigil, the same one stitched into the cuffs of Elias’s dress uniform. The same one she’d watched him adjust a hundred times during inspections, his fingers brushing the embroidery like a nervous tic. She exhaled through her nose, the sound rough in the sterile quiet. The cuffs bit into her wrists when she shifted, the restraint field humming a warning. The Dominion didn’t trust her not to lunge for the terminal again. Smart. The screen across from her still displayed the Harbinger’s final transmission log, frozen mid-frame. The prisoner’s face, gaunt, hollow-eyed, stared back at her, lips parted as if about to speak. She knew that expression. Had seen it on her own crew when the Resolve’s hull breached, when the alarms wailed and the lights died and they all understood, in the same instant, that no one was coming to save them. She’d given the order to scuttle the Harbinger knowing full well what it meant. Knowing the prisoner wouldn’t survive. Knowing the Dominion would call it mercy, and the rest of the fleet would call it murder, and neither side would care about the truth. The truth being that the man in that cell hadn’t been a man at all. The door cycloned open again. Toren didn’t turn. She already knew the rhythm of Veyne’s boots, too precise, like he was counting steps to distract himself. “You’re still here,” she said. Elias halted just inside the threshold. The overheads painted his face in harsh relief, deepening the shadows under his cheekbones. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the Resolve went down. “They’re prepping the transfer.” “To where?” She kept her voice level. “The brig? Or are we skipping straight to the execution block?” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “You know I can’t, ” “Spare me.” She cut him off. “You’ve been feeding Dain intel. That’s his seal on your collar.” Veyne’s fingers twitched toward his uniform, then curled into a fist. “It’s not what you think.” “Then enlighten me.” She leaned forward, the restraints digging in. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve been playing both sides since before the Resolve was dust.” He didn’t deny it. Just stood there, breathing too carefully, like she was a grenade with a loose pin. “You don’t understand the position I’m in.” “Try me.” Silence. The kind that stretched until it became a confession. Toren studied him, the way his weight shifted, the way his eyes kept flicking to the terminal, the way his throat worked like he was swallowing something bitter. She’d known Elias Veyne for seven years. Had trusted him with her ship, her crew, her life. And now he was standing in front of her, wearing the colors of the man who’d just threatened to bury her, and he couldn’t even meet her gaze. “You’re scared,” she said. That got his attention. His head snapped up. “I’m not, ” “You are.” She softened her voice. “You’ve always been too smart for this, Elias. Too careful. So tell me why you’re standing in a room with a traitor’s sigil on your shoulder, looking at me like I’m already dead.” His breath hitched. For a second, she thought he might actually answer. Then the terminal behind her chimed, the sound sharp as a knife tap. Veyne flinched. A new file unfolded across the screen. Security footage, timestamped two days before the Resolve’s destruction. The angle was grainy, taken from a corridor cam near the brig. Toren watched herself stride into frame, her expression unreadable. Behind her, two marines dragged a hooded figure, tall, even slumped in restraints. The prisoner from the Harbinger. Veyne reached past her, tapped the display. The footage jumped forward. Inside the brig, the hood came off. Toren’s stomach dropped. The prisoner wasn’t human. Not entirely. His skin had the sickly sheen of someone who’d been kept in the dark too long, but the shape of his face was wrong, the jaw too broad, the brow ridge too pronounced. And his eyes, Gods, his eyes. They caught the light like polished obsidian, pupil-less, reflecting the overheads in a way that made her teeth ache. She’d seen that look before. On the faces of the things the Dominion dug up from the ruins of dead worlds. The things they locked away and pretended didn’t exist. The things they called Custodians. “You saw this,” Veyne said, low. “Before you gave the order.” It wasn’t a question. Toren’s mouth was dry. “I saw.” “And you didn’t report it.” “Would you have?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The footage rolled on. The prisoner, it, spoke. The audio was distorted, but the words cut through clear as glass: “The chain is broken. The watcher wakes.” Veyne froze. “What the hell does that mean?” Toren said nothing. She’d heard those words before. In her dreams. In the static between comms bursts. In the voice that had whispered to her from the Harbinger’s wreckage, the one that called itself Custodian. The one that had warned her, over and over, that he was coming. Veyne scrubbed a hand over his face. “Dain thinks you’re hiding something. That you knew what that thing was before you ever boarded the Harbinger.” “Dain’s an idiot.” “Dain’s a commander,” Veyne snapped. “And he’s got the ear of half the Admiralty. If he decides you’re a liability, ” “He’ll what? Execute me for following protocol?” She jerked her chin at the screen. “That thing was a security risk. I contained it. End of story.” “Bullshit.” Veyne’s voice dropped. “You’ve been jumpy since the Resolve went down. You hear things no one else does. You react to things before they happen. And now this?” He gestured at the footage. “You expect me to believe you didn’t know?” She held his gaze. “I expect you to remember who the hell you’re talking to.” For a second, she thought she’d gotten through. Then his expression shuttered. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me the truth.” “The truth?” Toren let out a hollow laugh. “You want the truth, Elias? Fine. The truth is that thing in the brig wasn’t the only Custodian on that ship. The truth is the Dominion’s been lying about what they dug up on Erebus Nine. The truth is, ” The terminal blinked. The footage dissolved into static, then reassembled into a new feed. A live one. Dain’s face filled the screen, his smile all teeth. “Ah. There we are.” Veyne went rigid. “Captain Veyne,” Dain said, pleasant as a blade sliding between ribs. “I trust you’ve had a productive conversation with our guest.” Veyne’s fingers twitched toward his collar again. “Sir. I was just, ” “Reviewing the evidence?” Dain’s gaze flicked to Toren, then back. “Good. Then you’ll understand why I’m disappointed.” The screen split. On the left, the brig footage. On the right, a new angle, Toren’s own quarters on the Resolve, three days before the destruction. She was asleep, or pretending to be. The camera lingered on her face, then panned down to the data pad clutched in her hand. The screen was visible, just barely. Project CUSTODIAN: Phase Three Deployment. Veyne’s breath hissed out. “You knew.” Toren closed her eyes. Dain’s voice was a scalpel. “She didn’t just know, Captain. She participated. The Harbinger wasn’t a prison transport. It was a test. And Commander Toren here was the one holding the leash.” The feed cut to black. Veyne was very still. “Is it true?” Toren opened her eyes. “Does it matter?” Something in him cracked. “You bitch.” The insult landed like a physical blow. She absorbed it, said nothing. Veyne turned on his heel, stormed for the door. It cycloned open before he reached it. Dain’s voice followed him out. “Captain Veyne. A moment.” Elias froze. “You’ve done well,” Dain said. “But loyalty is a two-way street. I trust you understand what’s at stake.” Veyne’s shoulders tensed. “Yes, sir.” “Good. Then you’ll know what to do if Commander Toren becomes… uncooperative.” The door sealed shut. Silence. Toren flexed her fingers, the restraints biting deeper. “He’s using you.” Veyne didn’t turn. “Maybe.” “You don’t even know what you’re a part of.” “And you do?” His voice was raw. “You’ve been lying to me since Erebus. Since before. So don’t you dare stand there and act like you give a damn about what happens to me.” She watched him go, the set of his shoulders betraying the weight he carried. The weight she had put there. The terminal chimed again. A single line of text scrolled across the screen, untagged, unsourced. THE WATCHER IS AWAKE. Toren’s breath stopped. Below it, a second line appeared. AND IT IS HUNGRY. The cell door hissed open. Toren didn’t move. The restraints had been deactivated minutes ago, but her wrists still throbbed where the bonds had cut in. She stayed seated on the bench, fingers curled against her thighs, watching the two armored guards step inside. Their helmets were featureless black ovals, their movements synchronized with the kind of precision that spoke of neural syncing. One gestured. "Commander. On your feet." She exhaled through her nose and stood. The deck plating was cold beneath her bare feet. They hadn’t given her boots back. The guards didn’t speak again as they marched her down the corridor. The station’s lighting was dimmed to a sickly amber, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted with every step. Toren kept her gaze forward, mapping exits by habit. Three junctions. Two sealed hatches. A service duct above the fourth bulkhead, too high to reach without a boost, but wide enough to crawl through if she could get up there. They stopped outside a cell marked HOLDING-7B. One guard keyed in the access code while the other kept his pulse rifle trained on her sternum. The door slid aside with a groan of stressed metal. Inside, a man sat hunched on the opposite bench, his back to them. His uniform was a faded navy, the insignia torn from the shoulders. The fabric was stiff with old sweat and something darker along the left sleeve. Toren’s pulse jumped. She knew that build. That posture. The guards shoved her forward. She stumbled, caught herself against the wall. The door sealed behind her with a finality that echoed in her ribs. The man didn’t turn. "Took them long enough to give you company." His voice was rough, like gravel under boot heels. Toren had heard it over comms a hundred times, barking orders during drills, laughing too loud in the mess after a double shift. She’d last seen him on the Iron Resolve’s bridge, manning the tactical station when the Harbinger’s torpedoes hit. "Dain send you to break me, Jace?" she said. That got him to look up. His face was gaunt, a week’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. A fresh bruise bloomed along his cheekbone, the skin split near his temple. But his eyes, sharp, assessing, were the same. "Not everything’s about you, Commander." He spat on the deck. "Name’s not Jace anymore. Just Prisoner 479." She slid down the wall until her ass hit the bench. The metal bit through her trousers. "You always were a terrible liar." A muscle twitched in his jaw. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, voice dropping. "You wanna know why they really pulled me in?" Toren didn’t answer. Jace, Prisoner 479, glanced at the corner where the surveillance pickup hummed, a red light blinking. "They think I saw something." The air in the cell thickened. He wet his lips. "Two weeks before the Resolve went down, I was on leave. Drunk off my ass in the Lower Docks on Cynosure, right? Stumbled into the wrong bar. Saw the wrong people." Toren’s fingers dug into her thighs. "Rael Karr was there." His voice was a rasp now. "Captain of the Harbinger. Had a table in the back with three others. Two in Dominion Intelligence blacks, one in a Custodian’s robe." The words hit like a physical force. Toren’s breath stalled. Jace’s gaze flicked to hers, then away. "They were arguing. About you. About the Resolve. About something called Project Watcher." The bench creaked as Toren shifted. "What else?" "Enough." His laugh was bitter. "Karr’s voice carries when he’s pissed. Said the Harbinger wasn’t just a transport. Said it was a test. Said you were the, " A metallic shriek cut him off. The cell door buckled inward with a sound like tearing sheet metal. Jace’s head snapped up just as the reinforced plating twisted, the edges curling like peeling fruit skin. A high-pitched whine filled the air, the servos straining. Then the door moved. Not opened. Not slid. It lurched, jerking sideways with enough force to snap the hinges. The edge sheared through the air where Jace’s throat had been a second before, embedding itself in the bulkhead with a wet thunk. Jace’s body hit the deck. Toren was on her feet before the echo died, pressing herself against the far wall. The door groaned, the mangled metal still vibrating. A thin trickle of dark fluid seeped from beneath Jace’s torso. She didn’t need to check his pulse. The intercom crackled. "Malfunction detected in Holding-7B. Containment breach. Lockdown initiated." Toren’s gaze locked onto the surveillance pickup. The red light was still blinking. Steady. Unconcerned. She crouched beside Jace’s body, her fingers finding the torn fabric at his collar. The insignia was gone, but the ghost of the Iron Resolve’s crest remained, the threads frayed where it had been ripped away. Her nails bit into her palm. The intercom chimed again. "Commander Toren, remain in place. Security teams are en route." She didn’t move. Jace’s hand was still warm. She pried his fingers open. A scrap of paper, folded small, was pressed into his palm. She unfolded it. Three words, scrawled in smudged ink: VEYNE KNOWS MORE. Toren’s stomach dropped. Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Boots on metal, hurried. She tucked the note into her sleeve and stood just as the door screeched open again, this time from the outside. Elias Veyne filled the doorway, his uniform immaculate, his face a mask. Two guards flanked him, their rifles raised. His gaze flicked to Jace’s body, then to her. Something dark and unreadable moved behind his eyes. "Commander." His voice was clipped. "You’re being relocated." One of the guards holstered his weapon, stepping forward to haul her out. Toren didn’t resist. As she passed Veyne, she let her shoulder brush his. Close enough to smell the antiseptic sharpness of his cologne. Close enough to see the family seal stitched into his cuff, a silver hawk, wings spread, clutching a blade in its talons. Close enough to whisper: "Did Dain tell you about Karr yet?" Veyne’s fingers twitched. Just once. Then the guard shoved her forward, and the moment was gone. The corridor lights flickered as they marched her toward the detention block’s central hub. Toren kept her head down, her mind racing. Veyne knows more. Jace’s words burned in her skull. She risked a glance back. Veyne stood outside the cell, staring at Jace’s body. One of the guards said something to him, but he didn’t react. His hand was clenched around the note she’d palmed him, she’d seen the transfer, smooth as a pickpocket’s touch. Good. The hub was a circular chamber with six spokes radiating outward, each leading to a different wing. The walls were lined with reinforced plasglass, giving a view of the station’s skeletal superstructure beyond. Toren slowed as they passed the central console, her eyes catching on the duty officer’s screen. A live feed from Holding-7B. Jace’s body was still there, sprawled where he’d fallen. But the door, now fully detached, lay three meters away, the hinges sheared clean through. The duty officer noticed her staring. "Freak accident," he muttered. "Hydraulics must’ve overpressurized." Toren said nothing. The guards pushed her toward the third spoke. She let them, her gaze lingering on the feed until the angle cut it off. Then the station shuddered. A deep, resonant thrum vibrated through the deck plating, humming up through the soles of her feet. The lights dimmed, then brightened to a painful white. Alarms blared to life, their wail cutting through the hub’s quiet. The duty officer cursed, slamming his palm against the console. "What the hell, ?" The feed screens flickered. Static. Then, for a single, impossible second, an image resolved: A corridor. Not on this station. The walls were black, veined with pulsating blue light. And at the far end, A figure. Tall. Armored. Its silhouette was wrong, the proportions stretched, the limbs too long. It turned its head, and the screen dissolved into static again. The guards froze. One whispered, "What was that?" Toren’s skin prickled. The intercom crackled. Dain’s voice, tight with something she’d never heard from him before. Fear. "All personnel, this is not a drill. Unidentified energy signature detected in Sector 9. All non-essential systems are to be locked down. Repeat, this is a Black, " The transmission cut off. The lights died. In the sudden darkness, Toren heard the guards scramble, their rifles clicking as they powered up night-vision. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because in the black, something else breathed with her. A voice, low and distorted, whispered from the console’s dead speakers: "I see you." Then the emergency lights flared to life, casting everything in a sickly red glow. The guards were gone. Vanished. Only their rifles remained, clattering to the deck. Toren was alone in the hub. She turned slowly. The plasglass walls no longer showed the station’s superstructure. Beyond them stretched an endless corridor of black and blue, the same from the feed. And at the far end, closer now, stood the figure. It raised one elongated hand and pressed it against the glass. Toren’s reflection did the same. The glass was cold under Toren’s palm. She should have recoiled. Should have called for backup, for the station’s failing defenses, for anything. Instead, she stood there, fingers spread, mirroring the thing on the other side. Its touch left no condensation, no smear, just a perfect, unbroken reflection of her own hand. Then it spoke. Not through the console this time. The words vibrated through the glass, through her bones, a voice like grinding metal and static. "You are the key." Toren exhaled. "Keys open doors. What door?" A pause. The figure tilted its head, the motion too smooth, too precise. "The one you have already walked through." The emergency lights flickered. Somewhere in the station, alarms wailed, then cut off mid-scream. Toren didn’t look away. "You’re in the system." "I have always been." She bared her teeth. "Then you know I don’t take orders from ghosts." The thing, it, laughed. The sound skittered along her nerves, raised the hairs on her arms. "Ghosts do not leave scratches on black boxes, Commander." Her breath hitched. The words landed like a blade between her ribs. No one knew about the black box. No one except, The intercom hissed. "Commander Toren." A different voice now, crisp, human. "Report to Interrogation Alpha. Immediately." Veyne. Toren didn’t turn. "Busy." "Now, Commander." A beat. "Or would you prefer I send a detail to escort you?" She lowered her hand. The figure was gone. The plasglass showed only the station’s skeletal framework again, bathed in emergency red. No corridors. No stretched shadows. Just the hollow echo of her own pulse. She turned on her heel and walked. --- Interrogation Alpha was a box of gray steel and bad lighting, the kind of room designed to make you feel like a specimen under glass. Veyne stood inside, arms crossed, his dress uniform immaculate save for the faint crease between his brows. The family seal, a silver hawk in flight, gleamed on his collar, catching the light as he shifted. Toren stepped through the door. It hissed shut behind her. Veyne didn’t look up from the datapad in his hands. "You’ve been avoiding me." "Had pressing engagements." She dropped into the chair across from him, the metal cold even through her uniform. "Like not getting murdered by whatever the hell is crawling through the station’s veins." That got his attention. His gaze snapped to hers, sharp as a blade. "Explain." She told him. Not everything, just enough. The corrupted feeds. The missing guards. The thing in the glass. She left out the black box, the scratches, the way the voice had known. Some secrets were hers alone. Veyne listened, his face unreadable. When she finished, he set the datapad down with deliberate care. "You’re suggesting the station is compromised." "I’m suggesting we’re not alone." He leaned forward. "Toren. The Harbinger’s logs, " "Are a lie." She cut him off. "You and I both know it. That ship didn’t just vanish. Someone made it vanish. And now that same someone is walking our decks." Veyne’s fingers twitched toward his seal. A tell. He only did that when he was weighing risks. "You’re tread, " The intercom crackled. "Commander Veyne." A voice, smooth and synthetic. "Your loyalty is noted. Further deviation will be logged." Veyne went still. Toren recognized that tone. She’d heard it in the dark, whispering through dead speakers. "Custodian." Veyne didn’t deny it. His jaw tightened. "This conversation is over." She lunged forward, slamming her palms on the table. "Bullshit. You know something. What?" For a second, she thought he’d break. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to her. Then the moment passed. The mask slid back into place. "Watch your step, Toren. The chain of command exists for a reason." She sat back, cold laughter bubbling up. "The chain of command got my ship blown to scrap. The chain of command is handing us lies on a platter. You really think I give a damn about protocol right now?" Veyne stood, his chair scraping. "I think you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, and I’m the only one holding the rope." He leaned in, voice low. "Confess to the charges. Take the reprimand. Walk away with your reputation intact." She studied him. The lines around his mouth. The way his fingers hovered near his seal, like he was fighting the urge to touch it. "Or what? You’ll throw me to the wolves?" His voice dropped further. "Or it will." A beat. Then understanding clicked. Toren’s breath left her. "You’re scared of it." Veyne didn’t answer. She didn’t need him to. --- The cell was smaller than Interrogation Alpha, but at least it was quiet. Toren sat on the narrow cot, the black box resting on her knees. The guards had returned it to her after the "incident" in the hub, probably Veyne’s doing, a peace offering or a test. She hadn’t asked. The box was warm. She turned it over in her hands, tracing the seams with her thumb. The scratches were there, faint but unmistakable, four parallel grooves near the access panel, like someone had tried to pry it open with a tool too wide for the job. Or too desperate. Toren reached into her boot and pulled out the shiv she’d palmed from the mess hall, a jagged sliver of plastic honed to a point. Not elegant, but it would do. The first seam gave with a soft click. The second resisted, then popped free. She worked quickly, sweat prickling at her hairline. The station’s hum felt louder in here, the air thicker, like the walls were breathing. The panel came loose. Inside, the data core pulsed with a dim, unhealthy light. Toren’s stomach dropped. Corrupted. Not just damaged, eaten. The core’s surface was pitted, the data crystals inside clouded, as if something had gnawed at them from the inside out. She should have been furious. Should have hurled the box against the wall, screamed, demanded answers. Instead, she went very still. Because in the uneven light, she saw them. More scratches. Tiny, precise, clustered around the core’s housing. Not from a tool. From claws. Toren’s fingers trembled as she reached in, brushing the marks. They were fresh. The metal beneath was bright, untarnished. Someone, or something, had been here before her. The lights flickered. A shadow moved in the corner of the cell, too fast, too fluid. Toren’s head snapped up. Nothing. Just the cot, the sink, the door. She exhaled, slow and controlled, and slotted the panel back into place. The black box went under her cot, tucked into the dark where prying eyes wouldn’t find it. Then she lay down, hands behind her head, and stared at the ceiling. Waiting. Because the thing in the glass had been right about one thing: She was the key. And keys didn’t just open doors. They locked things in.