Page 97 of Fought and Found

“I would like,” Torres says, with the controlled patience of a woman who is going to go home tonight and scream into a pillow, “to coordinate a missing persons case. Not discuss decorative lighting.” She turns back to me. “Ms Knight. The formal request. I can process it within twenty-four hours. In the meantime, I can share a preliminary summary of the docking bay data —“

“Or you could let us see the actual footage now and we could start finding him tonight,” Tael says. “While the formal request processes. Simultaneously. Like adults who care about the woman whose husband is missing and whose body is shutting down while we discuss paperwork.”

Torres stares at him.

He stares back. Silver eyes to dark brown. The smirk is gone — or it’s changed. It’s less performance and more genuine. The look of a male who has found something he didn’t expect: a woman who doesn’t defer. Who doesn’t charm. Who stands between him and the thing he wants and holds the line because the line matters to her, and the fact that the line matters to her is doing something to his chest he has not authorized.

“The protocols,” Torres says, slower now, watching him the way he’s watching her, “protect the station’s security infrastructure from compromise. I enforce them because without enforcement, systems fail. And when systems fail, people fall through the cracks.” The scar above her eyebrow catches the light. “I don’t let people fall through the cracks, Mr Vosk.”

Something shifts in his face. Barely visible. The tracker recalculating — not a target, not an obstacle. A person. A person who cares about the same thing he does, expressed in a language he doesn’t speak. Rules as care. Protocols as protection. The opposite of his instinct-first approach and arriving at the same destination.

“Neither do I,” he says. Quiet. The gravel-smoke voice without the performance.

Morrison, from her seat against the wall, is watching the two of them with an expression I know. I know it because she wore it when she watched me and Xor in this same office three weeks ago. Theexpression of a woman who sees the beginning of something neither participant has identified yet and is already calculating the operational implications.

“Morrison,” I say. “Did you time this?”

“I time everything, Florence. It’s called logistics.”

Torres breaks the eye contact first. Professional. Controlled. She pulls up a data pad. “I’ll share a preliminary data summary now. The formal request can process concurrently. Mr Vosk will need to be present for the footage review — my office, 0900 tomorrow — to maintain chain of custody on the evidence.”

“Your office,” Tael says. “0900.”

“0900. Don’t be late. I don’t repeat briefings.”

“I’ve never been late for anything in my life.”

“Your SRS performance file suggests otherwise. I requested it.”

The smirk — the real one, not the performance, the one that means he’s met someone who did her homework — returns. “You requested my file.”

“I request files on everyone who operates on my station without filing movement reports. You have fourteen violations in three weeks, Mr Vosk. We’ll discuss those at 0900 as well.”

“I look forward to it.”

“You shouldn’t.” She turns to me. “Ms Knight. Flossie. Morrison speaks highly of you. I’ll have the preliminary data sent to your systems within the hour.” She nods at Morrison — crisp, professional, the acknowledgment of a director’s authority — and walks to the door.

Tael’s tail, curled in its lazy spiral behind the reinforced chair, shifts. Not a reach. Not a lean. Something smaller — the tip lifting, the curl loosening by an inch, the prehensile muscle doing something unconscious and undirected in the direction of the door she’s walkingthrough. If I weren’t watching for it — if I hadn’t spent three weeks learning tail language from the male whose tail taps my wall every morning — I would miss it entirely.

I don’t miss it.

I don’t say anything. I write it in the notebook. Not words. A question mark. Small. In the margin. The kind of thing nobody would notice unless they read the notebook the way I write it — as a record of things that might matter later.

Torres leaves. The door closes behind her.

“Sprout,” I say. Quiet. “Not a word.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Sprout says. “I have, however, opened a file. It is currently empty. I anticipate it will not remain so.”

We close the office at 1900. It has been the longest, most chaotic, most productive first day of any company in the history of Junction One, and I am exhausted in the way that feels like abundance rather than depletion.

Tael is gone — not into the sector, not yet. He has a meeting with Torres at 0900 and he’s going to need a berth on Junction One for the foreseeable future. “Any recommendations for accommodations that aren’t terrible?” he asked on his way out. Before I could answer, Petra said, “Is there anything near the office?” — and the speed of that question told me everything I needed to know about how badly she wants this to be real. I gave them both berth assignments on Level 3. Close to the office. Close to each other. Close to me.

Tael asked one more question before he left, casual, not looking at me: “Torres. She always like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like —“ He stopped. Didn’t finish. Left. His tail was wound around his own leg the way I’ve seen Xor’s do when he’s holding something back. Tight. Controlled. Deliberate.