The cool press of chromasteel against Liskra’s wrists and ankles felt heavier than it should, the locking mechanism a dull click that echoed in the silent room. She sat strapped into a high-backed interrogation chair, the vial of synthesized cure, its blue suspension shimmering beneath the fluorescent strips, rested on a sterile tray just out of her reach. Across a scarred metal table, Vochak stood, his breathing still shallow, his face a mask of furious disbelief. The color had returned to his skin, but his eyes, usually sharp, were now shadowed with a grief that twisted her gut. He clutched the analog tape, a dark, rectangular block against the pale fabric of his tunic. The Magistrate guards, stiff as statuary, stood by the blast doors, their presence a cold weight. Pravik was nowhere to be seen. “Tell me,” Vochak began, his voice devoid of its usual rasp, flat and dangerous as a honing stone. “Tell me why. Why me? Why lie? Why play this… game?” Liskra swallowed, her own voice caught. The words tangled on her tongue, the familiar stutter threatening to choke her. *She’s the one from the storm.* His accusation hung in the air, a physical pressure against her chest. She looked at the vial, then back at him. The man who had been her unwitting incubator, her desperate gamble, her fragile hope for a city slowly dying. She thought of the sick, of the Coffin Wards, of Pravik’s sister, of the suffocating, dust-choked air of Oplot. The stutter did not come. Her voice emerged, clear and steady, colder than she remembered it ever being. A resonance deep within her, a different self, asserted itself. “Because you were the perfect host, Commander. Unique bio-signature. Ideal cellular regeneration. And… proximity.” Vochak stared, his jaw tightening. “Host?” He let out a short, humorless exhalation. “You used me. You infected me with this plague, then you… what? Expected me to thank you for the antidote?” He slammed the tape onto the table, the plastic clattering. “I saw it. Every second. You, in the storm, your eyes wide with calculated intent, plunging that needle into my arm. You thought I was dead. You left me to wake up in a nightmare.” “It wasn’t a plague, not as you understand it,” Liskra replied, her gaze unwavering. “It was a catalyst. The cure needed to mature within a living system. A complex, volatile biological matrix.” She watched his face, searching for a flicker of understanding, but found only raw betrayal. “I couldn’t risk a donor who might compromise the process. No one else had your particular resilience, your unique genetic markers. You were the only one who could survive the incubation.” “And your memory wipe?” he sneered, gesturing at her with a contemptuous wave. “Convenient, wasn’t it? An innocent face to fool the executioner.” “Necessary,” Liskra said, the word like chipped ice. “My past self, the bio-engineer you remember, was… thorough. Ruthless, if required. That level of conviction, that single-minded focus, would have triggered every biometric scanner in Oplot. Every security protocol. She would have been found. The cure would have been destroyed.” She looked at the luminescent vial. “This cure. The one that will save millions.” Vochak flinched, his eyes darting to the vial, then back to her face. “You wiped yourself… to keep me close?” His voice was a bare thread. “You *chose* to become this person? This… frightened, stuttering nurse?” He took a step closer, leaning over the table, his reflection distorted in its dull surface. “Do you know what it was like? To feel my mind tear itself apart, day after day? The images, the sounds, the *screaming* silence of a city that never slept? I tore Oplot apart looking for you. Not because of state secrets, not because of what you did to my body.” He leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a low, raw tone that bypassed her ears and settled in her bones. “I hunted you because for one night, in that storm, you made me feel alive. You made me feel like something beyond the grey concrete and the dead air of this city actually existed. You stole that, too.” A strange, painful ache blossomed in Liskra’s chest. His words, delivered with such naked, wounded honesty, were a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there. The cold shell of her past persona fractured, just for a moment, revealing the shy, ethical woman she had become. The woman who had fought Kraynik, who had risked everything for a single life. She saw the profound loneliness in his eyes, the yearning for connection that transcended even his fury. Before she could speak, before the moment could fully solidify, a voice, oily and self-satisfied, cut through the quiet. “A truly touching reunion. Pity it’s come to such a messy end.” The Chief Medical Officer strolled into the room, his expensive tunic pristine, his expression a triumph of smug malice. He carried a sleek, handheld device, its panel alight with intricate schematics. The two Magistrate guards, who had been stiff, now stood at ease, their batons held loosely. They were his men. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice, Liskra?” the Chief Medical Officer purred, gesturing vaguely toward the vial. “The sudden drop in my affliction’s efficacy? The peculiar resilience of certain test subjects? The whispers of a true antidote?” He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “A delightful thought, really. But wholly unacceptable.” Vochak turned, his fury instantly redirected. “Your work? What are you talking about?” “The insomnia,” the man said, his smile widening, a predatory flash. “It was never a natural pathogen, Commander. A little something I engineered myself. A subtle neurotoxin, easily introduced into the lower-tier air processors. Just enough to dull the minds, to break the spirit, to ensure the working class never had the energy or the cohesion to question their betters.” He made a dismissive gesture. “A necessary control, wouldn’t you agree? Keeps the turbines turning, the waste flowing, without all that tiresome unrest.” Vochak stared at him, blood draining from his features as horror settled in. “You… you did this? To the entire city?” “A small price for order,” Kraynik shrugged. He walked over to the tray, picked up the phosphor-bright vial, and held it aloft. “And this… this would undo all my careful work. So, regrettably, it must be incinerated. Along with its creator. And, of course, its… inconvenient incubator.” He smiled at Vochak, a cold, empty thing. “Such a shame, Commander. You were proving to be quite the nuisance.” With a flick of his wrist, the administrator pressed a button on his device. A low hiss filled the room. A fine, almost invisible mist began to seep from vents in the ceiling. Liskra froze. Nerve gas. Lethal. The smell of bitter almonds, faint but growing, began to prickle her nostrils. The Magistrate guards, as if on cue, donned small, metallic rebreathers and quickly exited through the blast doors. “Consider this my final contribution to Oplot’s stability,” the administrator said, his voice echoing from the other side of the now-closing doors. He watched the mist spread, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “A pity you never learned your place, Liskra. Some things are simply too dangerous to exist.” The heavy blast doors slammed shut, the hydraulic seal groaning into place, plunging the room into a muted, gas-filled chamber. The vial of cure was still clutched in the traitor's hand, now outside. Liskra tugged at her restraints, the bitter almond scent growing stronger. Vochak, still reeling from the confession, looked at her, then at the spreading gas, a desperate comprehension settling in. He didn’t care about state secrets. He didn’t care about the citywide affliction. He was dying, again, because of her. And this time, there was no cure.

The Interrogation