"Signed, a former idiot."
Thalatha's mouth twitched. "Former?" she asked, dead-dry.
"On probation," he said, and looked away so the smile wouldn't get ideas.
Rodion dimmed his panel a shade and began stitching separate feeds into one picture. He did it without flourish, like a librarian building a card catalog.
They moved toward the turn that smelled of old brass. The air shifted from chalk to metal; the floor gained a faint polish like many careful feet had tested it and lived. Rodion collected angles, echoes, a glint that didn't behave like light, and built the boss as a careful rumor that became true while you watched.
"Pretty," Mikhailis said when the image settled. "Like a peacock made by a blacksmith who hates people."
