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Chapter 98 – We Don’t Do Confessions

Chapter 98: Chapter 98 – We Don’t Do Confessions

The hallway outside Hernan’s dorm was colder than it should’ve been.

Tessa stood there for a full minute, hand raised, knuckles poised to knock again. She’d already knocked once. Waited. Nothing.

The lights overhead flickered in their usual irregular pattern — the Academy’s way of saying we’re watching without admitting it.

Still, no answer.

She reached for the handle. Didn’t hesitate.

The door was unlocked.

Of course it was.

Inside, the room was dim, one desk lamp on, casting a low amber glow across polished metal and shadows. Hernan sat at his desk, one leg folded over the other, hands steepled near his chin, like he’d been waiting. Not reading. Not working. Just... waiting.

She stood in the doorway for a breath too long.

"Come in or don’t," he said.

His voice wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm either. It was blank. Measured. Like a room with all the furniture removed.

Tessa stepped inside. She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t close the door.

She reached into her hoodie, pulled out the black data shard, and tossed it onto his desk.

It landed with a soft clink, spun once, then lay still beside his hand.

"I assume this is yours."

He didn’t look at it.

He looked at her.

"Is that what this is?"

She blinked.

Not denial. Not an admission. Just a question. The kind that made you do the work of proving yourself wrong.

"You didn’t stop me," she said, folding her arms. "On the roof. You could’ve. You knew I’d found something."

He didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Didn’t flinch.

"Why would I stop you?"

"Because it was a trap," she snapped. "Because someone else saw. Because now we’re both flagged."

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering it for the first time. But his eyes betrayed nothing.

"Why didn’t you purge the signal?" she asked.

Another pause.

He blinked. Once.

"Why didn’t you run?"

Her arms dropped to her sides.

She hated that. The way he answered every question with one of his own. Not to deflect. Not to confuse. But to strip you bare. Hernan Vale didn’t argue. He dismantled.

"You weren’t surprised," she said. "Not once."

He leaned back slightly.

She took a step forward.

"Your eyes," she continued. "They weren’t surprised. When I said I’d seen something. When I said I saw Solaris. That boy. You didn’t even blink. Like you’d been waiting for someone to figure it out."

Finally, he spoke. And this time, it wasn’t a question.

"Because you were never supposed to be part of this."

His voice was softer now. Not gentle — just... honest.

"Now you are."

The room felt smaller. More dangerous. But the real threat wasn’t in his posture. It was in the quiet.

She stared at him. He wasn’t reaching for the shard. He wasn’t hiding anything.

Which somehow made it worse.

Her voice came quieter now.

"Am I safe?"

The question landed between them like a live wire.

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at her.

Not like a threat. Not like a victim.

Like a variable.

Tessa let out a shaky breath. Not from fear.

From clarity.

She stepped back.

Fingers closed around the door handle.

Paused.

And for a moment, just a flicker, she wanted him to stop her. Say something. Anything.

But silence stayed.

She opened the door. Light spilled in. She walked out.

Shaking.

Not because she didn’t get an answer.

But because she already knew.

—

The door clicked shut behind her.

Hernan didn’t move.

Not for thirty-eight seconds.

Not even to breathe.

The desk lamp hummed beside him — low, soft, constant. His shadow stretched long across the metal desk, warping slightly as it reached the edge. The data shard still sat where she’d left it. Unclaimed. Untouched.

His eyes never left the door.

Not like he expected her to come back.

Just... noting that she hadn’t.

He leaned back in his chair. Slow. Precise. Every vertebra clicking into place like teeth on a lock.

Then he reached for his pad.

Not the one tied to the Academy net. That was a decoy.

He tapped behind the drawer base, releasing a false panel. A second datapad — matte grey, deliberately scuffed — slid into his palm.

He powered it on.

No boot screen. No logo.

Just a black field.

Then a voice prompt:

"Authorization?"

"Override 17," he said quietly. "Sublevel: Off-branch node. Designation: Lark."

"Accepted."

The interface unfolded like a map of nerves — voice-activated, touchless, sprawling with branching biometric trees.

At the center: PROJECT INHERITOR.

Hernan opened a side channel: Observation Logs – Unshared.

A new entry box blinked. Ready.

He tapped the mic.

Paused.

Then spoke.

"Lark. Log begins. Timestamp synced. Tessa Lyne — profile update."

His voice was even. Uninflected.

"She made direct contact at 0200 hours. Entered without resistance. Carried breach evidence: data shard, retrieved from dorm delivery. Did not deny breach or intent."

He hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then continued.

"Her behavioral pattern suggests a high tolerance for ambiguity. Risk thresholds inconsistent with her medical track profile. She displayed no signs of active deceit. Only hesitation... before withdrawal."

His fingers hovered over her profile tag.

CIVILIAN – NEUTRAL OBSERVE

He tapped once.

STATUS UPDATED: POTENTIAL VARIABLE – CATEGORY WHITE

The screen pulsed red — the protocol’s version of a heartbeat.

A message slid into place.

SYSTEM SUGGESTS: PURGE PATHWAY AUTHORIZATIONOptions:– Data wipe– Neural blackout (pending access)– Target silence protocol (Tier 3)– Observation delay with auto-escalation

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just scrolled.

And let his thumb rest on the confirm sensor.

Just rest.

He thought of her question. The way she’d asked it.

"Am I safe?"

And the way she’d looked when he didn’t answer.

She knew. That’s what scared him.

Not that she’d accessed the file.

Not that she’d seen the truth.

But that she understood what it meant — and still stayed.

Stupid.

Or brave.

Or something worse.

He tapped once — not "confirm."

"Hold."

The purge options faded. The threat dimmed. The system went still again, like a blade sliding quietly back into its sheath.

He locked the pad. Slipped it back beneath the drawer.

The room felt colder now.

Or maybe that was just him.

Hernan leaned forward. Rested his forearms on the desk. Eyes fixed on the data shard.

Still sitting there.

Like a chess piece no one remembered putting on the board.

And finally, he whispered — not with anger, not even regret.

Just certainty.

"She should have run."

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