Seth's POV.The first time I saw her was in front of a broken staircase, one hand on the railing as if she was weighing whether the rest of the structure was sound.She did not appear to be hurt. That was the first thing that registered. Everyone else showed their injuries. Limping legs. Bandaged arms. Weak gaze that kept darting to corners that no longer existed. She simply stood, stable and calm in a manner that did not belong in a situation like this.It had formerly been an outpost for Ceres’ relay. Reinforced walls. Heightened lines of sight. Good places to create choke points. It could have withstood. It didn't. The burn marks can tell far more about it than any survivor. Breaches in the walls of the west. Internal damage done. Fire was applied in places where a precision strike would have been better. Failure upon which layers of poor decisions are heaped.She was watching me as soon as I entered.I felt it. That subtle push against the eyes that means a person is paying attent

Seth's POVThe mission packet arrives, there was no knock or a request for a briefing. Just the silent upload pushed to my terminal while I'm still blowing dust out of my gloves. That alone is enough to raise a flag. Anything important usually comes with someone hovering nearby, pretending not to watch your face while you read.This doesn’t.I pull the file up and let it sit there for a moment before opening it. Habit. The first thing that I notice when I finally open it is how clean it looks.It's a Solo reconnaissance mission. Contested sector. Medium risk classification. Limited engagement directive. Standard surveillance window. Standard extraction.So basically... Standard lies.I scroll slowly, line by line, letting my eyes catch on the details that don't line up, coordinates that overlap in impossible ways, timestamps that contradict each other by minutes that matter, and intel summaries referencing assets that no longer exist. I pull up a separate map and overlay the route.T

Virek's POVThe problem with delayed data is not that it lies.It’s that it arrives stripped of urgency.By the time the feed reaches us, whatever choice created it has already settled into the world. You don’t stop actions through delay. You only interpret them. That makes people careless. It makes them believe they are observing instead of reacting.I don’t make that mistake.Seth’s feed comes in fragments. Not because the equipment failed. Because the sector eats signal and spits it back out unevenly. Noise. Gaps. Compression artifacts that smear motion just enough to soften intent.Even so, the pattern is clear.He is not moving like a man trying to survive.I sit at the center console, fingers steepled, eyes moving between feeds, maps, and telemetry logs. Around me, analysts murmur quietly, careful not to interrupt unless invited. They know better. I reward restraint.“Bring up movement overlay,” I say.A tech complies instantly. Seth’s path appears across the sector map, traced

Seth's POV Leaving the sector felt nothing like escape, it felt like reversing a decision the world had already accepted, and Seth moved with that awareness pressed tight against his spine, every step measured, every pause intentional, because if the system had taught him anything, it was that exits were more dangerous than entrances. He did not retrace his path, not exactly, he curved around it, letting the terrain break him up into fragments, letting any watcher struggle to decide which direction he had truly chosen. The air shifted as he crossed back into regions that pretended to be neutral, less hostile, more orderly, and he almost laughed at how fake it felt, the illusion of safety draped over ground that had already chosen sides.He stopped once, far enough from the contested line to matter, and stripped himself down to function. Gear came off first, piece by piece, not tossed, not rushed, just removed and set aside like shedding a skin that had outlived its purpose. The pack

POV: SethThe room stayed sealed the way Seth liked it, quiet without being empty, the kind of quiet that let thoughts move without bumping into surveillance. The lights hummed low overhead, casting a dull wash over the old table and the faces around it, and Seth stood instead of sitting, not because he needed to dominate the space, but because standing helped him think in straight lines. He rested his hands on the back of a chair, fingers relaxed, eyes steady, and waited until everyone had settled into that particular silence that came right before something irreversible.“This isn’t a speech,” he said calmly, almost conversational, “so don’t expect one.”Noel blinked, then nodded, shifting in his seat. Cassandra leaned back with her arms crossed, already braced. Alex stayed where he was near the wall, posture neutral, listening the way he always did when he knew something heavy was coming.“Exposure,” Seth continued, “doesn’t come from words. People think it does because words feel