The small room Aerin chose sat at the far end of the laboratory wing, a place meant for brief consultations and equipment sign-offs, not confrontations. Its walls were smooth and pale, sound-dampened to the point where even footsteps outside dissolved into nothing. A single circular table occupied the centre, its surface faintly reflective, catching the overhead light in a way that made faces look sharper, more exposed. The door slid shut with a muted hiss behind them, and with it came a silence that pressed inward rather than outward.
Patrick Neil stood near the table at first, hands clasped loosely behind his back, posture relaxed in the way only someone accustomed to authority could manage. His expression was neutral, almost pleasant, as though this were another routine discussion about budgets or calibration schedules. Aerin took the seat opposite him, folding her hands together, her spine straight. Taren leaned against the wall to the side, arms crossed, restless energy barely contained. Cyros sat last, placing himself slightly apart, the pen clipped to his jacket catching the light for a brief moment before his fingers stilled.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Patrick tilted his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. "You wanted to speak privately," he said, tone easy. "I assume this is important."
Aerin met his gaze evenly. "It is."
Taren pushed off the wall before she could continue, his impatience breaking through the stillness like a crack in glass. He took a step closer to the table, eyes locked on Patrick. "Why did you do it?"
The question landed bluntly, stripped of politeness or preamble. For a heartbeat, the room felt suspended, as though waiting to see which way it would fall.
Patrick blinked once. Then he smiled.
"What do you mean?" he asked lightly, spreading his hands in a gesture that suggested mild confusion rather than offense. "I do many things in a day, Taren. You'll have to be more specific."
Taren's jaw tightened. He glanced at Aerin, then back at Patrick. The casualness grated on him more than outright denial would have. It felt rehearsed, practiced over years of meetings where he was never the one being questioned.
Aerin drew a slow breath. "Two nights ago," she began, voice calm but firm, "there was a power outage in the lab lasting fifty-seven minutes. During that time, one calibration log went missing. The cameras were offline. And an unauthorized access was registered."
Patrick's smile didn't falter. "Yes," he said. "An unfortunate coincidence. I already explained that."
"You explained it very clearly," Aerin replied. "Too clearly."
Patrick's brow lifted a fraction. "I take pride in knowing my facility."
Cyros watched him closely. He noticed the way Patrick's fingers flexed once behind his back, the way his weight shifted almost imperceptibly. Small things. The kind people missed when they expected drama.
Taren stepped forward another pace. "A car entered the lab perimeter just before the outage."
Patrick glanced at him. "This is a research complex," he said mildly. "Authorized vehicles come and go."
"This one didn't stop," Taren said. "Didn't check in. The gate opened immediately."
Silence stretched thin between them. Patrick's smile softened, but something behind it dimmed, just slightly.
Aerin continued, unhurried. "The car was recognized by the system. Which means it wasn't flagged as foreign."
Patrick nodded once. "That would be logical."
"And the guard didn't question it," Aerin added. "Because it wasn't unfamiliar."
Patrick exhaled quietly through his nose. "You're building assumptions."
Cyros spoke for the first time. His voice was low, steady, carrying no accusation. "The access ID used belonged to a scientist who was not in the city that night."
Patrick turned his head toward Cyros now, really looking at him. "Credentials can be stolen."
"Yes," Cyros agreed. "But timing cannot."
The lab head's eyes narrowed a touch. "Explain."
"Secondary verification was offline due to the outage," Cyros said. "Whoever entered knew that. They also knew exactly when the outage would happen."
Patrick said nothing.
Taren felt a pulse of something sharp and bright in his chest—satisfaction, maybe, or anticipation. He pressed on. "And whoever it was knew exactly where to go. One log. No searching. No mistakes."
Patrick's hands dropped from behind his back and rested on the table at last. The movement was unremarkable, but it changed the room. He leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking from face to face. "You're suggesting an inside job," he said. "That's a serious accusation."
"It's an accurate one," Aerin replied.
Patrick straightened again, lips pressing into a thin line before curving upward. "Even if that were true," he said calmly, "you have no proof."
Aerin reached into her pocket and placed her slate on the table, turning it so he could see. "You answered every question we asked without hesitation. Exact times. Exact sequences. You didn't consult a single record."
Patrick's gaze flicked to the slate and back. "I remember my lab."
Cyros leaned forward slightly. "You also answered my question about the Sol immediately."
Patrick's expression hardened for the first time. "Because the answer was simple."
"No," Cyros said quietly. "Because you'd already seen the data."
The words settled like dust after a collapse.
For a long moment, Patrick said nothing. The casual smile faded, replaced by a blankness that felt heavier than anger. Taren could almost see the walls closing in, the calculations running behind those sharp eyes.
"You're very perceptive for academy students," Patrick said at last.
"That doesn't make us wrong," Aerin replied.
Something in Patrick shifted then. His shoulders loosened, and a low laugh escaped him—soft at first, then fuller, echoing strangely in the confined room. It wasn't amusement. It was pride, edged with disdain.
"Fine," he said, the word cutting through the air. "It was me."
Taren's breath caught despite himself. Hearing it out loud felt different—solid, undeniable.
Patrick straightened, authority snapping back into place like armor. "And what can you do?" he continued, eyes sharp. "You're children from the academy. Trainees. Not even sworn Patrols. No one will take your word over mine."
He stepped away from the table, already turning toward the door. "It would be better for everyone if you forgot this happened. Leave. Now. And don't come back."
Aerin opened her mouth, anger flashing across her features, but Patrick was already moving. Taren felt his fists clench, a dozen retorts burning on his tongue.
The click was small. Almost delicate.
Patrick froze.
A voice filled the room—his own, unmistakable, calm and arrogant. "Fine. It was me."
He turned slowly, disbelief flooding his face as the recording continued, each word echoing his confession back at him.
"And what can you do?You're children from the academy. Trainees. Not even sworn Patrols. No one will take your word over mine. It would be better for everyone if you forgot this happened. Leave. Now. And don't come back."
Cyros stood, pen held loosely between his fingers, his expression unchanged.
The recording ended.
Cyros met Patrick's gaze. There was no triumph in his eyes, no satisfaction. Only certainty. "Will people believe us now, Mr. Neil?"
Patrick's face drained of colour. His eyes flicked to the pen, then back to Cyros. "That won't save you," he said sharply. "I can—"
"And don't try to use force," Cyros continued evenly. "A copy has already been sent to the academy. Breaking the pen won't change that."
The tension snapped. Patrick's shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he sank back into the chair. For the first time, he looked his age.
Taren let out a silent cheer, punching the air once, a grin splitting his face. Aerin glanced at Cyros, a small, genuine smile breaking through her composed exterior as she nodded in acknowledgement.
She turned back to Patrick. "We'll report the evidence to the nearby Patrol station," she said. "Please remain here until they arrive."
Patrick stared at the table, jaw tight, saying nothing.
Taren leaned closer to the door, unable to resist. "Guess forgetting wasn't an option after all," he said lightly.
The door slid open, and the weight of what they'd done settled in behind them as they stepped out, leaving Patrick Neil alone with the truth he thought he owned.