Chương 422: 196.Interstellar Flight

"Enough." Marshal Pendleton was the first to speak. The old man who always held a pipe—whose impatience carried the weight of a standing order—gave Kaoru one cold, sideways glance. There was no disappointment in it. Just something worse: the look of someone deciding a thing wasn't even worth a second thought.

"Trash." He spat the word out with all the feeling of setting a teacup back on its saucer, then didn't spare another glance before turning and walking away. Vice Admiral Keisuke Hasumi had no choice but to follow immediately. That flawless, unshakeable smile of his now looked like a high-grade official document forced into a last-minute reprint—still presentable, but obviously rushed. As for Kaoru—they stayed down for half a beat before pushing themself up.

That bodyguard with the too-pale skin and the close-cropped silver hair, the one whose face gave away nothing about gender, steadied their breathing and, with perfect composure, gave me a proper salute. Then followed the Marshal out in silence. I stood where I was, watching that back disappear, feeling something complicated. … Damn it. Why did it feel like I was the villain here? I was the one who'd been called up to fight. I was the one who'd nearly gotten taken apart.

And somehow the whole scene now looked like I'd just publicly bullied a well-trained, hardworking kid who still had the manners to salute on the way out. The moral optics of this world kept getting less and less survivable.

"Wow," Colonel Wiesland said beside me, putting on a show of grief.

"I feel like our department's getting its budget cut next cycle." Unfortunately, the grin he couldn't quite suppress had already reduced that sentence to pure decoration. I rolled out my still-numb wrist and gave him the look he deserved.

"Next time you want me to throw a match, tell me in advance." He shrugged, wearing an expression that made you want to hit him on principle.

"I had no idea you'd actually win."

"You'd better not have."

"Hoshino," he said, grinning without a shred of conscience.

"I've always had high hopes for you."

"That sentence makes it sound like I'm about to end up on a recruitment poster." Before I could say more, another voice cut in.

"Impressive, young lady." Kushima Seigen. The old man who'd been watching the whole thing like an unexpected bonus matinee now stood nearby, and this time there was real focus in his eyes. Not the indulgent kind an elder gives a child. Something more practical. More expensive. A lot more unsettling. He studied me for a moment and asked, unhurried:"Do you know what you just beat?" I shook my head, honestly. No idea. I really didn't know. I'd been too busy staying alive to do a product breakdown on my opponent.

He seemed to find that answer perfectly reasonable. He nodded, then delivered a line flat enough that any sane person should have frozen on the spot.

"What you just beat," he said, "is Kushima Heavy Industries' newest Safeguard. Kaoru." He paused, as if trying to recall something slightly embarrassing that happened to be his own company's tagline.

"What was the slogan again? Ah, right." He smiled.

"Unbeatable." I froze. My brain went blank for a second. Then, several beats too late, some kind of commercial-liability instinct came stumbling in. …Oh. …Oh no. Oh, I am so sorry. I bowed almost on reflex.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." That wasn't politeness. I was genuinely rattled. Because this wasn't just beating a bodyguard. In front of a room full of government, military, and business heavyweights, I had just flattened Kushima Heavy Industries' newest, self-proclaimed Unbeatable security product. That wasn't a fight. That was a live product-demo sabotage. And not some small-time booth. A flagship-launch-level one. Kushima Seigen blinked. Then he laughed. Not a polite social laugh.

Not an elder's indulgent chuckle. A real one—the kind that meant this outcome was more interesting, and more valuable, than the one he'd originally expected.

"No need to apologize," he said, waving a hand.

"This is better. Continuous improvement, after all. Ha." … For the first time, I understood clearly that people who make this kind of money are not running on the same hardware as the rest of us. A normal person's first reaction to this would be: You just put a dent in my brand, in public. Kushima Seigen's first reaction was: Excellent. Now we know exactly where to upgrade. That wasn't broadmindedness. That was having so much money that even public humiliation could get filed under R&D input.

Sure enough, the next second he turned toward Colonel Wiesland. Unhurried, but steady—the pace of someone who never walked over just to chat. More like someone about to casually acquire a mid-sized budget line.

"That little project of yours," Kushima Seigen said, skipping straight to the point.

"If you need funding, the Kushima Group will cover it in full. You don't need to worry about what your superiors think." I stood there, wrist still aching, brain still catching up, and thought: So that's what it looks like to invest like that. No questions about project content, risk assessment, fund allocation, strategic direction, or payback timeline. The attitude was basically: Hey. Short on cash? I have an obscene amount of it.

That kind of largesse had gone past generosity into something that could casually walk over an entire meeting agenda. Wiesland's smile deepened—deep enough that it was obvious every jab I'd landed on him earlier had just been repaid with interest. And I, standing off to the side, thought that by this point, the opening ceremony had completely stopped pretending to be a school event. Outside: honor guard, cheer squads, flags, cheers, youth, glory.

Inside: an angry Marshal, a defeated bodyguard, a corporate president live-funding a defense project on a whim, and the word Unbeatable getting stepped on and repriced in the same breath. A healthy, constructive, deeply educational campus morning. None of these VIPs lingered, of course. They arrived like a gust of wind. They left the same way. Pendleton walked out wearing the expression of a man who'd found even the encore beneath his standards. Hasumi trailed him like a shadow.

Kaoru walked silently behind, that salute still lodged uncomfortably in my head. Kushima Seigen and Colonel Wiesland talked funding and logistics as easily as if they were deciding on dessert. Within minutes, the lounge that had been packed with three sectors' worth of power emptied back out. The heater kept humming. The broadcast kept running. Outside the glass, the matches rolled on at full volume. The lounge went quiet fast. Not the quiet of no one talking.

More the quiet after a typhoon passes—the windows are still in their frames, the tea hasn't spilled, the floor's even spotless—but you know something got knocked crooked, and nobody's pointed at it yet. The room that had just been packed with government, business, and military figures now held only three people. Me. Maki Kushima. Hedwig von Wittelsbach. Outside, the matches kept going. Cheering. Announcements.

The split screens still running: someone getting thrown in unarmed combat, someone nearly faceplanting into the mud on the obstacle course, D still very earnestly re-educating training robots about the concept of mortality, and in the shooting lane, numbers climbing cold and steady, like a feed from an entirely different religion. But filtered through glass, air conditioning, and whatever had just happened in here, all of it sounded very far away.

I stood at the edge of the space that had almost become an impromptu arena and looked down at my hand. Knuckles a little red. My wrist starting to bloom with the kind of ache that promises an ugly bruise. My ribs remembered Kaoru's hand too—the real, will-hurt-in-the-shower kind of real. I was still trying to decide if this qualified for workers' comp when Maki spoke.

"You really do have a gift for adding items to the reception schedule." Her voice was flat. Flat like a freshly printed notice whose contents you already know aren't going to make your day better. I looked up. Maki hadn't moved. The white-and-gold ceremonial uniform was still knife-straight. The high ponytail didn't have a hair out of place. To anyone else she looked exactly like herself, like the whole bout had been a footnote in a very long checklist. I knew better.

The flatter her tone got, the less over this was, in her head.

"I didn't want to," I said.

"But Marshal Pendleton didn't strike me as the type to accept, 'Sorry, I'm just here for guest guidance, warm-up brawls aren't in my contract.'""You could have refused in a way that actually looked like a refusal."

"If I'd refused any harder, you'd currently be receiving a version of me rolling around on the carpet." She looked at me. Pale. Sharp enough to cut.

"Did you, at any point, seriously consider faking a collapse?" I hesitated half a second.

"…I'd rather not incriminate my more honest impulses." She closed her eyes for a second. A small motion. But not exasperation—she was pressing down something I'd just about annoyed into taking physical shape. Hedwig spoke from the side.

"If you had actually gone down, the outcome might not have been worse." I turned to her.

"You're actually on my side?"

"I am not on your side," Hedwig said, calm as ever.

"I'm extrapolating political effects. A student who loses composure on-site and a student who flattens a Marshal's bodyguard on-site produce very different ripples."

"…Thank you for that deeply academic attempt at comfort."

"That wasn't comfort."

"I know," I said.

"Why does everyone want to hit me with facts today?" Hedwig answered, perfectly level. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"Because a few minutes ago, you were using yourself to hit other people." I nearly choked. Honestly, Hedwig's most dangerous quality was never the cold. It was the way she could say something in the most unhurried, most rational, most emotion-free way possible—and the sentence would still land like rebar buried under the floor. You wouldn't know it was there until you walked straight into it. I cleared my throat, trying to drag the conversation somewhere marginally less lethal.

"But I won." Maki picked that up instantly.

"And?"

"…" That "and" was dangerous. It wasn't a simple question. The full version usually ran: And? You think winning means there are no other consequences? I was smart enough not to make her spell it out. I straightened up a little instead.

"So at least I didn't embarrass you both, out there." Her eyes stayed on my face for two seconds. Then, slowly:"Whether you embarrass me has never been what I cared about." … And there it was. That sentence wasn't ordinary trouble. If she'd wanted, she could have stuck to procedure—you went off-script, you complicated things, you broke the route. Purely institutional anger. Instead she skipped all of that and said, flatly, that face wasn't the issue. Which meant this was being filed somewhere else entirely.

My throat went dry. Hedwig, tactfully, didn't add anything. Or rather, Hedwig knew exactly when silence would apply more pressure than words. Maki closed the last two steps and stopped right in front of me. Not too close. Not too far. The kind of distance that still looked reasonable in public, but made it very clear: right now, she's only dealing with you. Then she lifted my right hand. Gently. Not rough, not yanking.

Just naturally, the way you'd do it without thinking, turning my wrist to look at the mark that was starting to show.

"…Tch." The sound I made was not heroic. Her brows dropped a notch.

"So now it hurts?"

"It wasn't really the moment to cry in front of a Marshal."

"So you do know he was the Marshal."

"I know. I also know he really deserved to get hit."

"Hoshino Shimo."

"Okay. Quiet." She ignored that entirely and pressed her thumb lightly along the edge of the mark, checking how deep it ran. I almost yanked my hand back on reflex. Not from the pain. Mostly because when someone like Maki does something like this, in a setting where she could easily have kept it purely professional and chose not to—that lands worse than any scolding. She said, quietly:"Marshal Pendleton wanted to inspect the merchandise. That's his business." I watched her lashes. Too close.

Close enough I barely trusted myself to answer.

"But you are not merchandise." … Done for. Coming from Maki, that wasn't a small thing. She wasn't someone who said things like that lightly. Her usual vocabulary ran to get the order right, knowing isn't the same as doing, say less—orderly, bounded phrases you could stamp and file. And now she was telling me— You are not merchandise. It wasn't sweet. It wasn't even really a compliment.

It was more like she'd set something solid and heavy directly into my hands and told me: what just happened out there, she hadn't watched it like a show and moved on. I couldn't answer right away. Not for lack of a line. For lack of any line that wouldn't deserve to get struck by lightning on the spot. She looked up.

"If you had lost," she said, "Marshal Pendleton wouldn't have cleaned up after you. Neither would Colonel Wiesland. That isn't their job." I finally found my voice.

"So you would have?" She paused. Very briefly. But this was Maki—not deaf. She'd heard the question fine. She was deciding how generous she was willing to be about it.

"I would have gotten you out of the room first," she said. I almost laughed. She was infuriating. Infuriating because even having pushed a line right up to the edge like that, she'd still land it in the most procedural, most restrained, least sweetened way possible. Which was exactly why it hit harder. I looked down at the hand she still hadn't let go of.

"So you were a little angry."

"What do you think?"

"I think yes."

"Then your judgment is functioning normally, for once today."

"Just today?"

"We'll count just today, for now." I couldn't help it. I laughed. That sounded like an insult. But the fact that Maki could still land an insult at a moment like this usually meant the situation was still within her control. The day she stopped sniping at me entirely would be the day to start worrying. Hedwig finally walked over.

"Maki Kushima," she said.

"If you intend to keep educating Hoshino Shimo, I'd suggest closing the door first." We both looked at her. Hedwig looked exactly as composed as ever—gold hair neat, uniform crisp, like nothing that had just happened here involved a fight, only a slightly substandard process test.

"There are still people in the corridor," she added.

"At this distance, from outside, it looks very much like the Seitokai President is privately interrogating a problem student in the VIP lounge." I looked at Maki, then at Hedwig.

"First of all—what part of that description is wrong?" Maki finally let go of my hand and gave me one cold, surgical look.

"If you've still got energy for jokes, I clearly didn't go hard enough."

"That's a terrifying thing to hear."

"Then remember it." Before I could fire back, Hedwig had already turned toward the glass.

"Also," she said, "precision shooting is entering its second calibration round." That single line was enough to nudge the whole room—private, charged, deeply unfit for any official record—back onto its rails. I looked out too. The numbers on the screen were still climbing, cold and precise. The shooting range looked like its own kind of religion: clean, quiet, exact. And Akari's name sat right there, a fine steady nail driven into the one spot the prelims most needed to hold. I exhaled.

"So what you two are telling me," I said, "is that me nearly getting taken apart on the lounge carpet is officially filed, to be reviewed later."

"Correct," Maki said immediately.

"And it wasn't nearly," Hedwig said, perfectly calm.

"You genuinely came close to losing."

"…Thank you for the tender encouragement."

"You're welcome." I stood there in silence for a couple of seconds, then gave up and turned back to the glass. Outside, the matches kept going. Inside, the ledger was definitely not closed. But for now, I was still standing. My hand still worked. Maki was angry, but hadn't reclassified me as unrecoverable. And Hedwig was still looking at me like I was a liability that was, for the moment, still functional. In other words— I could probably survive today.

Whether Maki came for me alone tonight, or Hedwig had quietly filed me under high-risk unstable variable—that was a problem for after dark. You have to schedule your despair in stages. The day's prelims, by some definition, were over. Outside, the light had turned that warmer late-afternoon color. The honor guard and cheer squads had finally stood down, and the crew was tearing down boards, coiling speaker cable, sweeping scattered confetti into innocent little piles.

The whole campus felt like it had just finished an extremely intense, extremely self-conscious performance—ready now to take off the stage makeup, loosen a collar, and say a few things about today's schedule that would never make the official record. Today had been the selection round. Starting tomorrow, it stopped being selection and became elimination. Bluntly: up to today, everyone technically still had hope. From tomorrow, stepping onto that line meant knocking someone else off it. The mood would be uglier.

So would the blood pressure. I'd been planning a small celebration for two people. Because D and Akari had both cleanly made it through to the elimination bracket in their respective events. D especially. I'll probably remember that image for the rest of my life.

From his very first match, he'd handled that practice-grade axe like a family heirloom, and by the time he'd reduced his eighth training robot to scrap—half its arm gone with it—even the safety officer on the sideline had shifted from monitoring competitor safety to cataloguing remains. Akari's side was a completely different picture. She'd barely spoken all afternoon. Everything she had lived inside the scope.

Breath, stance, fingers, wind, light, sound—things that were distractions for everyone else were just parameters, to her. Every shot was clean and cold, controlled the way she was controlled, quiet to the point of not quite fitting in, accurate to the point of not quite seeming human. By any reasonable standard, both of them deserved to get dragged out and celebrated. I'd even drafted the pitch in my head, with genuine goodwill: I'll pay. You two pick the place. Nothing too pricey, nothing too shady.

I didn't get to finish the sentence before both of them shut me down at once.

"Let's celebrate once it's actually over," Akari said first, calm as ever.

"Winning today just means I've earned the right to keep shooting tomorrow." D just rolled his shoulders and grinned.

"Shimo," he said.

"I haven't finished chopping down everyone I need to chop down. What's there to celebrate?" … Great. Really great. One of them: today was just a qualifier. The other: doesn't count until I'm finished. Had the two of you held a planning session behind my back to make sure my suggestion sounded like I'd wandered in from the wrong industry? I shrugged, mouth still open to argue further, when I caught it in my peripheral vision— Maki, pulling a document from that terrifyingly organized folder of hers.

The motion was almost gentle. Whenever Maki took something out of a pocket, folder, or briefcase, the movement always had that near-demonstration-grade elegance. But spend enough time around her, and you learn: the more elegant the motion, the more you need to worry. It usually means whatever she's about to put on the table is going to reroute your entire schedule straight into next year. She set the document down, text facing me. I read the header.

Large, unambiguous characters: SCHOOL TRIP — Seitokai ADVANCE PARTY"… What is this," I said, in a tone bordering on despair. Maki's expression didn't shift. She didn't even bother raising an eyebrow.

"Exactly what it says," she said lightly.

"Since Her Highness will be giving a formal address during the trip, the Seitokai needs to send one member ahead to check the venue, schedule, and contingencies." The words Her Highness came out of her mouth completely naturally, completely officially—like she'd practiced how to say them in formal contexts since childhood. Which, knowing her, she probably had. She added, "Once the tournament wraps up, the rest of the council leaves with the second-years. It won't be long. Three to four days." Three to four days.

My temple gave two extremely honest throbs.

"…I wanted to watch the eliminations," I muttered, with entirely sincere resentment. Not whining. I genuinely didn't want to miss it. I could picture D's bracket with my eyes closed. I wanted to be there in person in case anyone tried something with Akari. And, to be perfectly honest, I'd planned to sit in the stands with snacks and mentally roast every competitor from a safe distance. Maki had just yanked me off the bleachers with a single sheet of paper. Akari stepped over and gave my shoulder a light pat.

"It's fine, Shimo." Same flat, calm voice she used when aiming.

"I'm going to take first." …That didn't sound like comfort. It sounded like an early results announcement. D laughed and started to say something, when another voice cut in first—"Wow," Jess said, strolling up like she'd been waiting all day for this exact cue.

"Nicely played, Maki." I turned. Jess was still in the dark-blue stand-collar uniform, short brown hair wind-messed beyond usual, grinning like someone who'd spent the whole day enjoying the show and was ready to land one last finishing blow.

"How's it played?" I asked, wary.

"Think about it." She pointed at the document, then at me, then at Maki.

"Prelims wrap—paper drops—Shimo gets shipped out." She smiled like she was watching a very educational corporate documentary.

"That's peak Kushima." Maki didn't even look up.

"That's called following procedure."

"Oh, sure," Jess drew it out.

"Following procedure, and it just so happens to package Shimo up as advance scout for Her Highness. And it just so happens to land on the exact day Shimo most wanted to stay and watch the matches. Does your family run overtime scheduling this efficiently too?" Maki finally lifted her eyes, slowly. Flat. Dangerously flat.

"Jess."

"What."

"Would you like to come along too?" Jess's smile froze for exactly one frame.

"I was joking."

"I wasn't."

"…Does the Kushima family run employee management like this every single day?"

"This is just the introductory level." At that point I couldn't hold it in anymore and laughed. Not at Maki. Not at Jess. Just at the whole picture. That morning I'd been dragged in front of a Marshal to be quality-checked. That afternoon, I'd watched two people win beautifully and flatly refuse to celebrate early. Now, the moment evening came, a single sheet of paper dressed as paperwork—but functioning as a net—had scooped me right out the door. The whole day felt like a disaster gift set with my name on it.

D crossed his arms, mouth tipping sideways.

"Shimo."

"What."

"This thing where people are always dragging you off to do stuff—""That's not a thing."

"Used to be called trouble magnet. Now it's indispensable."

"Do you hear yourself?"

"I do," he said, shameless.

"Makes total sense." Akari added, level as ever:"Since you'll be gone, I'm even more sure I need to take first."

"Hold on," I said.

"What's the logic there?" She looked at me, calm.

"There is one," she said.

"You won't be here. So I have to watch the outcome for you." …Akari was dangerous in a very specific way. There was no softness in how she said things like that. No extra emotion. Just a statement, delivered like physics. And precisely because of that, it landed heavier than any amount of sentimental phrasing ever could. I opened my mouth, closed it, then turned to Maki and pointed at the paper.

"You're sure you're sending me?"

"The paperwork's already been submitted," she said.

"The moment it was approved, your name was already in the assigned field."

"Did you even ask me?"

"Was that necessary?"

"…"

"Hoshino Shimo," she said, perfectly calm.

"There are four people standing around you right now, and not one of them is on your side. Even if you invoke democracy, you won't get a single valid vote." I looked around. D: grinning with total sincerity, wearing a face that said just go, you'll be fine — deeply punchable. Akari: eyes steady, already having folded Shimo will be gone tomorrow into her own objective function.

Jess: thumb tapping away at her phone, texting God knows who, and the second she caught me looking, immediately switched to this has nothing to do with me. Maki: standing straight, folder already closed, like the whole matter had already entered its closed-case file. I sighed.

"…You people really can't give me one single day off."

"Save that line for tomorrow," Maki said.

"Why?"

"Because you leave tomorrow morning."

"…" I wanted to protest. But arguing with Maki was like running your face into a steel wall—you're the only one who ends up bruised. So I shut up and, with great reluctance, took the document. The next day. I got to the spaceport by Hover-cab, obscenely early. Early enough that even the sun seemed personally offended. Not my fault.

The boarding time on the ticket was that unreasonable—it wasn't that I was early, it was that this shuttle had been scheduled early, and I was just one more living casualty the timetable had dragged out of bed. The spaceport at dawn had an unreal quality to it. Not the sentimental chaos of an airport at departure. Not the everyday crush of a train station.

More like an enormous, brightly lit, indifferent relay platform—everyone in transit, not everyone even headed to the same planet, every face scrubbed as clean as if it had just been wiped. High overhead, route boards listed flights in a font so crisp it verged on cruel. The floor below reflected everything—a long row of security gates and boarding bridges.

Somewhere in the distance, a broadcast calmly announced boarding for the Lunar City line, the sound bouncing off the empty hall until it stopped sounding like information and started sounding like an administrative summons. I walked toward the Lunar-line gate, luggage in hand. According to the ticket, this was a mid-range passenger liner headed for Lunar City. Nothing special about the route—exactly the kind used for routine official travel. Not luxurious, not shabby. Safe. Reliable.

The kind of ship built for anyone who needs to arrive ahead of someone more important than themselves. I stepped onto the long walkway toward the gate, ticket between my fingers, and flipped my collar up out of habit. That was when— Two figures stepped out from either side of the corridor, perfectly in sync, and blocked my path. Black suits. Simple cut. Clean tailoring. No badges. No insignia. No decoration of any kind. One look told you: not ordinary people.

And the worse part is, black suits showing up at a moment like this are never attached to ordinary business. The one on the left—Black Suit A—spoke first. Low voice. Even. Trained.

"Lieutenant Hoshino Shimo, correct?" The word Lieutenant landed in my ears, and something small and quiet inside me— settled. Not shock. I didn't have the luxury of shock. Shock is a reaction reserved for things you didn't expect. Those two syllables were too familiar for that. Not news. More like an old debt being read aloud again. On campus, that identity simply wasn't discussed. Faculty and students both knew, but nobody used it in daily conversation—that was the line everyone silently agreed not to cross.

The eleven of us, myself included, never volunteered it either. This wasn't campus. This was a spaceport. A place where certain channels had every legal right to call me by that name. That line disappeared the moment I passed through the gate. I gave the ticket a slow half-turn between my fingers and looked up at him.

"And if I am?" Not hard. Not soft. Just the register you use when you both already know exactly which file is being pulled. Black Suit A didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked briefly across my face, confirming I understood Lieutenant had been deliberate, not a slip. Then he reached into his jacket and produced a thin, black-wrapped parcel. Reasonable size. Not heavy. Sealed in a way that gave no hint of what was layered underneath.

"This is from Colonel Leo Wiesland," Black Suit A said. Black Suit B added, just enough to finish the message:"The Colonel also asked that you wait until you're in your cabin before opening it." I looked at the parcel. I looked at the two of them. I looked up at the departure board. I really did not want to take it. Because my gut was telling me, with complete confidence: this was real trouble. Not the slightly hectic afternoon kind. The this is going to drag me by the collar for days, maybe weeks kind.

I knew, with total certainty, that the instant these suits had come into view, decline had already been removed from the menu. They weren't here to ask my opinion. They were here to make sure this object ended up in my hands. I wanted to refuse. Genuinely. Unfortunately, the universe has never shown much interest in cooperating with my survival instincts at the moments that matter. I reached out and took it. The plastic caught a small square of cold morning light.

The weight traveled from my fingertips up to my wrist—real, present, not especially heavy. Which was exactly what made it worse. Important things were usually light. I tucked the parcel into the inside pocket of my coat and, summoning what I considered a reasonably professional smile, said:"Please pass my thanks to the Colonel." Black Suit A gave a small nod. Black Suit B said nothing. They exchanged one brief, entirely professional glance, then stepped aside together, clearing the path to the gate.

As if the sole purpose of their appearance today had been those two words—Lieutenant Hoshino Shimo—and one parcel that hadn't been refused. I didn't look back. I kept walking toward the gate. The floor underfoot was still bright, still clean, still completely unaware. The board overhead kept flipping route numbers with total indifference. The distant broadcast kept guiding passengers to their ships in that warm, bureaucratic tone.

And inside my coat, pressed lightly against my ribs, sat a small, harmless-looking black parcel, weighing far more than it should. I walked on, saying the Colonel's name once, very quietly, in my head. Leo Wiesland. Then told myself, honestly: This day had never planned to go easy on me. Fate doesn't ask whether I feel like hearing it today. It only makes sure that I will.