“No ditzy vet knows a tier-seven combat formula… Who are you, really?” Bramon’s voice, rough as a griffin’s talons on stone, sliced through Tivya’s momentary paralysis. Her carefully constructed facade, the one that had held for weeks, lay shattered like glass. The chill wind from the open balcony no longer felt like a reprieve, but a premonition. Her mind, usually a whirlwind of calculated chaos, slammed to a halt. He knew. Or at least, he was dangerously close to knowing. “W-who am I?” Tivya stammered, pulling her arm from his grip with a sudden, forceful jerk. The raw power in his fingers had left a phantom ache. She forced a giggle, high-pitched and strained, pushing her wild hair back from her face. “Why, silly! I’m Tivya Jorl, your beast-vet! And right now, I’m a very annoyed beast-vet! That beast nearly clawed the guard's face off, and I had to improvise! It’s called… uh… bio-osmotic neutralization! Very standard, really. Just a quick dose of concentrated sleep-spore extract. Easy peasy!” She gestured vaguely at the inert beast, then at the guard, who was still being attended by medics. Bramon’s gaze, however, remained fixed on her, unwavering. The crowd, slowly regaining its composure, began to murmur. Tivya flinched under their scrutiny, but Bramon’s silent intensity pinned her in place. “Sleep-spore extract doesn’t melt through reinforced chitin like that, Jorl,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, a predatory rumble. “And it certainly doesn’t require a four-stage bio-sequence, administered with bare hands.” Panic coiled in Tivya’s gut, a venomous serpent. She had to shift his focus, and fast. The only weapon she had left was her recklessness. “Oh, you’re just saying that because you’re tired, Bramon!” she chirped, forcing another overly bright smile. “You need a drink! A real, strong one. Come on, I know just the place. VIP lounge, now!” Before he could argue, Tivya seized his arm, her small hand surprisingly strong, and dragged him away from the gawking crowd, past the stunned noblemen and the still-recovering guard. She ignored the confused glances, pulse drumming against her ribs. She needed alcohol, and Bramon needed to be drunk enough to forget his suspicions. The thought was a desperate, dangerous gamble, but it was all she had. She pulled him into the nearest private lounge, a lavish room with plush velvet seating and a fully stocked bar shimmering with rare spirits. Tivya practically shoved him onto a deep crimson sofa, then snatched up a decanter of amber liquid. “This looks good! Thrice-distilled Ember-Whisper! It’ll put hairs on your chest, or put you to sleep, whichever comes first!” she declared, pouring two generous glasses. Bramon watched her, his expression unreadable, as she downed half her glass in a single gulp, the potent liquor burning a trail down her throat. Her cheeks flushed immediately, a sudden, artificial gaiety bubbling to the surface. She refilled her glass, then pushed the other into his hand. “Drink up, Bramon! To… to not getting torn apart by rogue monsters! And to… to my incredible, completely normal vet skills!” He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unresolved. Tivya chattered on, her words growing slurred, her movements exaggerated. She felt the alcohol’s warmth spreading through her veins, loosening her tongue, dulling the razor-sharp edge of her fear. She refilled his glass several times, matching him sip for sip, until the room began to spin in a pleasant, blurry haze. “You know,” Tivya slurred, leaning closer, her elbow accidentally knocking over an empty glass. It clattered loudly on the polished floor. She ignored it. “You’re… you’re much less scary when you’re tipsy. Almost… almost human. Not a giant grumpy griffin. Although…” she paused, her gaze drifting to his shoulder, a memory flashing through her alcohol-fogged mind. “…you do have a very… *distinctive* scar. Right there. Tiny, just above your… your wing-muscle.” She poked the air vaguely near his left shoulder. Bramon froze. His glass, halfway to his lips, stilled. The casual, drunken remark hung in the air, sudden and sharp as a blade. That scar. It was small, a faint crescent from a training accident years ago, hidden beneath the thick fabric of his Talon-Vanguard uniform. No one, not even his most trusted officers, knew its precise location. No one, except… His eyes narrowed, their dark depths suddenly clear, sober. The faint buzz from the Ember-Whisper vanished, replaced by an icy dread. The pieces. The contract fragment. The genius bio-alchemy. The impossible familiarity. The way she had moved in his quarters. The scar. He had turned Ophalon upside down for weeks, obsessively hunting the elusive woman from Room 808, the one who had disappeared with his contract. And all this time, she had been right under his nose. The realization slammed into him with the force of a full-grown Sky-Wyrm. Tivya Jorl. The ditzy vet. His one-night stand. The bio-alchemist behind the construct. It all clicked. A cold fury, hotter than any forge, began to simmer in his gut. His hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white. He was about to speak, to utter her name like a curse, when the lounge door burst open. An adjutant burst through the doorway, breathless, a rolled-up data-scroll clutched in his hand. “Captain! I… I just got the decryption from the gala’s transport manifest!” he gasped, oblivious to the atmosphere. “The stealth-beast wasn’t just smuggled in; it was tagged! The ledger… it names the primary breeder as ‘Jorl Bio-Solutions’! And the registered owner of ‘Jorl Bio-Solutions’… it’s Tivya Jorl!” The words hung in the air, a public pronouncement of her secret. Tivya froze, instantly sobered. She stared at the messenger, then at Bramon, whose face had settled into rigid stone. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, his movements deliberate, terrifyingly calm. His right hand went to his belt, unhooking the heavy cuffs from their leather loop. The metallic click echoed in the suddenly silent room. “Tivya Jorl,” Bramon’s voice was devoid of all warmth, all emotion, sharp as a blade on a whetstone. “You are under arrest for high treason.”

The Room 808 Confession