I wanted to record a message, but I kept telling myself I wasn't doing it.
I told myself this as I closed the office doors, dimmed the lights, and routed the room's internal systems into private mode. Every movement was muscle memory. I had ingrained the security protocols. I told myself I was just organizing files.
I also told myself I needed a record of all my actions so far, and not a confession.
The truth was simpler and more dangerous: I needed to speak to my brother in a way the world could not intercept.
The recorder hovered in the air above my desk, a soft blue halo indicating it was live but encrypted, isolated from external networks, shielded from psychic surveillance. Adrian had helped design it years ago.
I stared at it for a long time.
The city outside pulsed with light and motion. Somewhere below, people were living entire lives in the time it took me to decide whether to open my mouth.
"Adrian," I said finally.
