Caleb stopped with his hand still half-open on the table.
The amber lights stayed warm. The bartender kept his attention on the glass in his hands. The city above them kept moving.
The table became the only dangerous thing in the room.
Her last sentence sat between the meat board and the untouched drink.
I saw the motel room, Caleb.
"You recorded that," he said.
"I own the feed routes attached to your survival capsule," she replied. "Recorded is such a small word."
She stood from the booth and walked around the table. The composite face stayed pleasant. Anger would have been easier to read. A tantrum would have had edges. This was control wearing perfume.
Caleb pushed his chair back.
She placed a slim black tablet on the table and turned it toward him.
Kikaru's academy profile filled the screen: sponsor contracts, toxicity-screen records, press obligations, recovery footage from the prototype duel. A draft complaint waited beside them with half the fields already complete.
