The room they had been given was quiet in the way only research facilities managed to be—soundproofed not for comfort, but for concentration. Pale light washed over the smooth table at the center, and beyond the reinforced glass wall, the muted hum of the lab continued, distant and detached.
Cyros sat with his back straight, hands resting loosely in his lap, eyes fixed not on the others but on the faint reflection of the Sol feed glowing from a monitor in the corner. Aerin stood near the table, one hand braced against its edge, the other holding a thin slate of notes she hadn't looked at in several minutes. Taren paced. He always paced when he was thinking too hard.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Taren stopped abruptly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright," he said, voice lighter than he felt. "I'll go first before my brain explodes."
Aerin glanced up, giving a small nod. Cyros shifted his gaze from the glass wall to Taren.
"I talked to everyone I could," Taren continued. "Shop owners, late-night vendors, a kid who was supposed to be asleep but wasn't. No one saw anything… except one."
He paused, the humor draining from his expression.
"There's a kid who lives two streets down from the lab. He sneaks out at night to watch delivery traffic because he wants to be a driver someday." Taren let out a quiet breath. "He said a car stopped near the lab entrance that night. Not outside the fence. Inside."
Aerin straightened slightly. "Inside the perimeter?"
"Yeah," Taren said. "That's what stuck with him. He thought it was strange because deliveries don't happen that late. The car slowed, the gate opened without delay, and it drove in like it belonged there."
Cyros's fingers curled almost imperceptibly.
"And the time?" Aerin asked.
"Just before the power outage," Taren replied. "The kid remembered because the lights went out right after. Said it startled him enough that he ran home."
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
Aerin looked down at the table, then up at Cyros. "That lines up."
Taren frowned. "With what?"
"With the access logs," Aerin said. She finally set the slate down, sliding it across the table as if that would anchor the information. "The unauthorized access happened during the outage. The ID used belonged to a scientist who was confirmed to be out of town that night."
Taren blinked. "So someone stole the ID?"
"Or already had it," Aerin replied. "What matters is this—normally, that ID requires a secondary verification. Biometric. During the outage, that system was offline."
She met their eyes, one after the other. "Which means whoever entered knew exactly when to do it."
Taren let out a low whistle. "So the blackout wasn't a problem."
"No," Aerin said quietly. "It was a solution."
Cyros shifted forward slightly now, elbows resting on his knees. "The car wasn't stopped. It wasn't questioned."
Taren nodded. "Right. Which means either the guard recognized it, or the system did."
"And systems don't recognize strangers," Cyros continued. "They recognize patterns."
Aerin's gaze sharpened. "Authorized patterns."
The words hung between them.
Taren's pacing resumed, slower this time. "Okay. So whoever it was arrived before the outage, parked inside like it was routine, waited for the lights to go out, used someone else's ID, took exactly one thing, and left before the power came back."
Cyros spoke again, his voice steady. "They didn't search."
Aerin looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"They knew where to go," Cyros said. "And what to take. No hesitation. No mistakes."
Taren stopped pacing. "You're saying this wasn't theft."
"I'm saying it wasn't curiosity," Cyros replied. "And it wasn't desperation."
Aerin folded her arms, thinking. "It was containment."
Taren's eyes widened slightly. "Someone trying to make sure information didn't spread."
Cyros nodded once.
Aerin inhaled slowly, then exhaled through her nose. "There's something else."
Taren leaned forward. "There's always something else."
"When I asked about unusual events that night," Aerin said, "everyone hesitated. But one person didn't."
Cyros already knew who she meant. He could feel it settle into place like a missing weight.
"The lab head," Aerin continued. "He answered immediately. Gave exact times. No checking records. No uncertainty."
Taren frowned. "Isn't that just… confidence?"
"No," Aerin said softly. "That's memory."
Cyros's gaze dropped to the table. "He answered my question the same way."
Both of them turned to him.
"I asked if the Sol could record unfamiliar data," Cyros said. "He said it wasn't possible. Immediately. No pause. No consideration."
Taren swallowed. "But if the Sol's been consistent for three hundred years—"
"Then the question shouldn't threaten him," Aerin finished. "Unless it already did."
The room felt smaller now.
Taren dragged a hand down his face. "So let me get this straight. Someone arrives in a car that's recognized. The outage happens. Cameras go dark. They enter using an ID that won't trigger alarms because the systems are down. They take one specific log. And the person who explains all of this to us does so without hesitation, without error, and without checking a single record."
Cyros lifted his eyes. "Because he didn't need to."
Aerin closed her eyes for a brief moment, then opened them. "Because he wasn't recalling data. He was recalling actions."
The words landed with a dull finality.
Taren laughed once, short and disbelieving. "You know what I hate about this?"
Neither of them answered.
"He never lied," Taren said. "Not once. Everything he said was true. Just… framed."
Aerin nodded slowly. "That's the most dangerous kind."
Cyros leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "The Sol blinked."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Aerin froze. Taren turned sharply. "What?"
Cyros hesitated, then shook his head slightly. "I don't know. Not yet. But whatever was in that log—it mattered enough to risk this."
No one argued.
Aerin broke the silence at last. "There's only one person who fits every condition. Access. Authority. Knowledge. Timing."
"Patrick Neil"