MITCHELL’S POVThe chamber hums before anyone speaks. Translation devices whisper to one another like insects arguing over a lamp. Polished wood reflects faces upward, turning expressions into ghosts beneath chins. I sit still and let the room settle on me the way weather settles on a coastline…slow, inevitable, already carrying damage.“Custodial authority,” says the delegate from the North Bloc, tapping the word on her tablet as if it might bruise. “We need clarity. Who holds it? For how long?”“Open registry,” counters a man with a flag pin I don’t recognise. “Anything less is concealment by another name.”A third voice cuts in, sharp as a paper edge. “Emergency stewardship. You’re ignoring emergencies.”I note who leans forward when certain words land, who looks away, who smiles too late. Faces tell the truth long before mouths decide to help.“We can define terms all morning,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Definitions won’t hold if they’re built to win instead of to work.”A ri

SORA’S POVThe kettle clicks off by itself. The sound feels too loud in the small kitchen, like a signal flare. I leave it for a second anyway, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling where the light bulb hums faintly, overworked and underpaid.He sits at the table with his hands flat on the wood, fingers spread as if to prove they’re empty. He’s younger than I expected. People who help design harm usually are. His coat is still on. He hasn’t decided yet whether he’s staying.“You can take it off,” I say. “Or don’t. It’s your nervous system.”He gives a thin, apologetic smile and keeps the coat. “I won’t be long.”“No one ever is,” I say, pouring water into two chipped mugs. “Drink. Your hands are shaking.”“They weren’t before.”“They always were,” I say, sliding the mug toward him. “You just stopped pretending.”He wraps his fingers around the ceramic, as if it might float away—the teabag string trembles. I sit opposite him, the table between us scarred with old knife marks from