Chương 424: 198.Lunar City Copernicus

I slept. More precisely: I lay down, woke twice, and then closed my eyes again and pretended to be asleep. The first time, I woke because the ship made a minor trajectory correction mid-jump, and the hull gave a low sound like a distant cough. The second time, I woke because I was thinking. Thinking about what? I cannot remember. Probably Dr. Steiner's handwriting—so precise, so neat. Too neat to believe it was actually his.

He looked like the kind of person who would misspell his own name, and yet he had written a poison formula in calligraphy-quality script. You really cannot judge people by appearances. Of course, if I said that out loud, Maki would cut me off immediately. In that flat voice she used for reading official records, she would say: You are the least reliable example of not judging by appearances. And Hedwig would add: Fact. Neither of them would smile.

But the air would carry a faint quality—something like a quiet thumbs-up at sub-zero temperature. … Stop. Still doing it. The physical distance between me and those two is currently—how many light-years? Doesn't matter. Calculating it would not help. I turned over with my eyes still closed and buried my face in the pillow. The pillow smelled new. New to the point of carrying that this room has never been lived in quality—perfectly standard, completely soulless cleanliness. Yes.

This was exactly the kind of cabin the military prepared for temporary deployed personnel. Even the pillow was telling me: do not treat this as home. How considerate.

"Current external time, local time: 0617."

"This vessel will arrive at Lunar City, Copernicus Port, in approximately one hour."

"Passengers, please prepare for disembarkation." I opened my eyes. The ceiling was still the ceiling. I was still me. No—that sentence needed a correction, starting now.

"…Ayase Shiori," I said quietly to the ceiling.

"Attaché Trainee, Galactic Federation Embassy, Lunar City." Saying it out loud, I found the name remarkably inoffensive. Inoffensive to an almost excessive degree. The kind of name that would get crossed off a university application without a second thought. That was precisely the point. I sat up. I pushed my hair behind my ears and ran my fingers through it once. It felt a little dry. Recycled ship-water was never kind to hair. I would deal with it in the hotel room.

I got out of bed and stood barefoot on the cabin floor. The floor was cold. A clean cold. Clean enough that for a moment you might forget the last time you had stood barefoot on a floor somewhere. The dormitory? The school infirmary? Or— —No. Those memories could wait until after this was done. I opened my bag. Inside was the navy-blue, high-collar Attaché Trainee uniform. Not the evening dress. Not the deep-blue formal set. This was the working version. Clean. Precise. Lines drawn just right.

Insignia, sleeve patch, shoulder seam—all Federation standard, not a single unnecessary detail. A uniform has no personality of its own; the personality is supplied by the person wearing it. An instructor told me that once. I thought he was posturing at the time. Now I think he had a point. Slightly. Only slightly. I laid the uniform on the bed. Then I took out the other thing. The wig. It lay quietly in its case, like a small, docile animal that had not yet opened its eyes.

I picked it up and held it in front of the mirror. I put it on. Adjusted the hairline. Set the parting. Pressed the edges down with fine clips. I had done this several times. My hands knew the motions. They knew them too well, actually. As if my body had already given consent to this kind of thing without bothering to file the paperwork.

"A bit late to object now," I told my fingers. My fingers had no comment. They were practical. Whoever had the better odds of surviving, they worked for. I smoothed the last loose strand into place and looked up. The mirror did not show someone else. Still me. Only I had pulled my expression back a little, lifted my chin a degree, tucked away that under-slept and not interested in the world quality. With that, Ayase Shiori could step forward.

"… Good morning, Miss Ayase." I said it to my reflection. The mirror did not respond. Good. If she had responded, I would have pulled the wig off on the spot. I checked the expression once more. Good. That was not my gaze. More precisely: those were my eyes, but not the way I normally used them to look at people. That was correct. What I showed today was not Hoshino Shimo. Hoshino Shimo stayed inside—tracking routes, calculating risks, ready to say something unpleasant when necessary.

The face outside, today, was Ayase. I ran through the dressing sequence in my head. Inner white shirt first. Stiff collar, buttons done to the second. Then the deep-blue high-collar top, zipper to the top, silver collar clasp fastened. Grey-blue trousers, crease pressed straight. Black ankle boots, laces tucked, buckles aligned. Belt. Silver clasp, Federation insignia. Silver trim on cuffs, checked twice. Shoulder patch orientation, confirmed once. Then—the chest badge.

Federation Embassy, Lunar City Copernicus — Security Cooperation and Protocol Coordination Office. Below the title: Attaché Trainee. Trainee. In training. Intern. Test article. Something not yet fully recognized by the system. A very well-chosen word. It said: she has standing here. And: she is not yet important enough to require background checks. I stared at the word for two seconds, then pinned the badge to my left chest, position exact to the millimeter.

"…Understood," I said quietly to the mirror.

"Confirmed."

"I will report back shortly."

"This falls under protocol. I cannot elaborate." Four lines. Four registers. Four distances. Like tuning an instrument—adjusting the vocal pitch of Ayase Shiori, one notch at a time. The luggage case. Black, hard-shell, fingerprint lock. Ordinary people could not open it. If forced open, the interior would self-destruct. Everything as expected. I laid it flat on the bed, pressed my thumb to the lock, and the lid opened quietly. I did not go through the contents item by item.

I had done that last night—the ceramic blade in the heel, the power cells in the clutch, Steiner's vial of liquid that looked like mineral water, the blue Component B, the slip of paper with the 1: 3 ratio, and the laser pistol with the grip that felt too familiar. All present. Today was about what to take off the ship. The laser pistol, disassembled.

The frame went into the concealed inner pocket of the Attaché Trainee uniform—officially designated document security pocket in the Federation Embassy uniform specifications. Very convenient. Very thoughtful. Whoever designed it clearly understood what an attaché would encounter. Or—understood what an attaché was supposed to encounter. Power cells, two. One into the clutch. One sewn into the inside of the belt.

The poison vial, wrapped in its shock-absorbing liner and placed inside a container that looked like a cosmetics tin. Component B stored separately. The two were never in the same pocket. Steiner had underlined that rule three times on his note—may be separated from the person, but must never be in the same compartment. Three underlines. I still did not fully understand why three and not two or four. But if three was what he wrote, three was what I followed.

Copernicus Port The moment the hatch opened, I did not become someone else. I simply, with practiced ease, took one step back. What went out first was the surface of Ayase Shiori. Shoulders drawn slightly inward. Chin lifted two degrees. Eyes swept the crowd first, then settled on the direction indicators at the far end of the corridor. Pace could not be too fast, too alert, or too loose. The target register: a young attaché who had been trained, but had not yet earned the right to relax.

None of this happened naturally. I applied it, one layer at a time. Honestly, the ease with which it went on was a little nauseating.

"…Really," I said to myself.

"This kind of thing. Of course it was the first thing I got good at." The arrival hall at Copernicus Port was off-white. Off-white. The Galactic Federation's favorite color. Clean-looking. Neutral-looking. The kind of off-white that said nothing unpleasant could possibly happen here. High ceilings. A slowly rotating lunar projection in the center. Beneath it, floating letters: WELCOME TO COPERNICUS. Beside that, a smaller line: Please enjoy every moment of your time on the Moon. Thank you. I will do my best.

I followed the badge instructions to the Diplomatic Personnel channel, placed my badge face-up on the scanner, and held my ID next to the iris reader. The reader hummed. Green light. One second.

"Welcome back, Miss Ayase." The scanner operator said it without looking up. Back. A well-chosen word. It meant Ayase Shiori had a history in the system. Entry and exit records. Residency records. Her name appearing a few times on embassy visitor logs, possibly even a few signed petty-cash receipts. Steiner's work on cover identities was good enough that even I—the original, wearing her face—almost believed I had been here before. I nodded.

"Thank you." Four syllables. Low-pitched ending. A perfect Attaché Trainee reply. I even thought that thank you was more polite than every time I had ever thanked Maki in my life. Deeply embarrassing. Federation Embassy From Copernicus Port to the Federation Embassy was not far. Monorail, two stops, the slow lunar-gravity acceleration, glass carriages passing over a stretch of off-white administrative district. The whole journey was quiet enough to be unsettling.

Quiet enough that my thoughts had no excuse not to run. First, the embassy. Find Special Support. That was the department that did not appear on any official org chart but existed in every embassy. Named Special Support. In practice, it might do less than the cleaning staff—or it might be the most untouchable room in the building. Depending on who was inside today. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Then collect the package. Then leave.

Do not ask extra questions. Do not look at extra things. Do not stand in any corridor longer than necessary. That was the first thing I learned after the Yukikaze: in any institution, the length of your presence is proportional to the likelihood of being remembered. So the correct approach was: enter, complete, exit, and let everyone forget your face as quickly as possible. I adjusted the badge, pulled my shoulders another half-centimeter inward, and stepped off the monorail.

The embassy exterior looked exactly as I had imagined: white stone, Federation crest, flagpoles, revolving doors, guards, and a potted plant so fake it had given up on pretending. Even the plant was very Federation. Neutral. Inoffensive. The kind of leaves that would not tell anyone what had happened inside this building. I walked toward the revolving door.

"Good morning, Miss Ayase." The guard at the door inclined his head. Again, Miss Ayase. Again, someone whose system recognized the name. I offered a small, internal nod of respect to Steiner. The old man was not to be underestimated outside the field of toxicology.

"Good morning," I said.

"May I ask the purpose of your visit today?"

"Special Support. Routine check-in." The guard did not ask further. He did not look further. He simply stepped aside to let me through. Routine. He accepted the word without a pause. Good. That was exactly how a place like this should function. The interior corridor was long. Off-white, matte floor, standard Federation signage, one unobtrusive light every ten meters. Quiet enough for footsteps to echo, but not long enough to feel oppressive. Someone had clearly overseen the acoustics of this building.

I followed the directions. Third floor, then right. Back to the second floor, down a long corridor, through a glass door. Back to the first floor, around to the staff passage at the rear, down to B1. At the end of the B1 corridor, right, then left, then right. Through an unmarked steel door. Then—"… Is this something I am expected to memorize?" I said it to myself, very quietly. Yes. That was exactly what this was. Walk it once, and your feet remember it. An old-fashioned approach, one I knew well.

Pre-Yukikaze military training: no paper, no files, no recordings. Let the body hold it. I rounded the last corner and stopped in front of a door that looked like a warehouse entrance. No sign. No room number. No department name. Not even please knock. I knocked twice. Short. Not polite. Informational.

"Come in." A voice from inside. An extremely, thoroughly unremarkable voice. The kind of voice you would hear in a coffee queue—the person in front of you orders a turkey sandwich—and you would have no memory of it afterward. I pushed the door open. The room was even more warehouse-like than I had expected. Metal shelving. Several unlabeled boxes. An old desk. On the desk, a data terminal that looked at least three generations out of date. Behind the desk, a man. The man wore a Federation clerk's uniform. Grey.

Standard issue. His face—how to describe it. The kind of face you could look at for three seconds, close your eyes, and find entirely gone. Not ugly, not handsome. Not old, not young. Not tall, not short. Not heavy, not slight. Like someone had pressed random generate in the Galactic Citizen database and used the result without modification. He looked up.

"Miss Ayase?"

"Yes."

"Identification." I placed my ID on the desk. He glanced at it. Did not pick it up.

"Here to collect?"

"Yes."

"Follow me." He stood, walked to the iron door at the back. I followed. He pushed it open. Inside was a deeper space, dimmer, shelves along the walls holding several cases of varying sizes. He went to the far end and pulled out a large one. Black. Hard-shell. One size larger than the case I had organized in the cabin that morning.

"This one." He pushed it toward me.

"Everything you need is in there. If you require anything further, let me know in advance." I looked at him. He looked back at me. —More precisely: his eyes pointed in my direction. But his gaze did not actually land on me. It passed over my badge, my chin, the edge of the wig at my ear, and moved on. The gaze of someone who had seen enough of everything.

"…Understood." I nodded and took the case. Heavy, but not clumsy. The kind of weight that had content, layers, deliberate distribution—packed by someone who had done this before. He nodded and turned to leave. Then—just before he completed the turn— He added, without inflection:"…The Colonel says. This is the third one."

"…Pardon?" I looked up.

"This week." He said it, and he was already walking. His back did not pause. He did not add another word. He did not look back to confirm I had heard him. I stood there. Case in hand. The phrase third one this week in my head. And behind that phrase, the very deliberate, very ungenerous blank it had left behind. The third Ayase Shiori? The third person to collect a case from this room? The third one Wiesland had deployed? Or—the third one who had not come back?

I ranked those four possibilities in order of likelihood, and then—"… Honestly." I exhaled quietly.

"Is it so difficult to finish a sentence." The clerk was already back at his desk. He looked up at me for one second, then returned his eyes to his terminal. I said nothing further. I took the case by the handle and walked out. But I made a point, as I went, of memorizing his face. Even if his face was the kind that randomized itself. Even if I would probably not recognize him next time. The voice, though. The rhythm of this is the third one. The angle of that turn. I had those. People like him showed up again.

My hit rate on that kind of instinct was very high. Copernicus — A Walk I did not go directly to the hotel after leaving the embassy. Two reasons. The first, legitimate: familiarize with the environment. The second, also legitimate: if there was a tail, a circuit would confirm it, disrupt it, and possibly draw them somewhere convenient for observation. The third—fine, this one was not entirely legitimate: I wanted to see Lunar City. First time here in my life.

I had been remarkably restrained about not looking around on the way in. The least I could do, before checking into the hotel, was be a tourist for five minutes. Just once. Ayase Shiori as tourist, not Hoshino Shimo. That did not violate mission discipline. Yes. Exactly like that. Copernicus was the kind of city that—how to put it—was clearly built on the Moon and was working very hard to pretend it was not. Low gravity was architecturally counteracted; walking felt only slightly more buoyant than usual.

The streets used Earth-style paving. The signage used Earth-style fonts. The restaurants had Earth-style chalkboard menus outside, today's soup written by hand: Cream of Mushroom. Mushroom. On the Moon. I held a brief internal memorial for that soup. The Federation zone occupied the western half of the city. The Imperial zone occupied the eastern half.

Between them ran a central boulevard of exaggerated width, both sides packed with nominally neutral commercial establishments, all of them desperately trying not to offend anyone. The result was that every sign looked essentially the same—off-white, metal trim, clean font, brightness calibrated to be inoffensive. A shared-administration city in theory. Two great powers staring at each other across a street in practice. I walked into a café and ordered an herbal tea I had no need for.

"For here or to go?"

"For here, thank you."

"By the window?"

"… Please." I sat by the window. Outside: pedestrians. Among them, a man who had been maintaining a two-block distance behind me since some time ago. Grey coat, black cap, soles slightly thicker than fashion required—not a style choice; the kind of thickness that reduced joint strain during extended surveillance. Not professional. Not amateur either. Mediocre at best. Mediocre at best. The most inconvenient category. Too consistent to expose himself obviously. Not skilled enough to be impossible to lose.

He would follow me, patiently, until he had my room number for the night. I picked up the herbal tea and took a small sip. —So I would not rush to lose him. —I would take him somewhere he should not see, and let him go back and explain that. More educational that way. I looked at the pattern on the teacup. A moon. Again. I understand. This is Lunar City. It does not need to be on everything. I paid, left the café, and walked slowly. I circled through the most crowded section of the central market.

Bought a scarf, paid in cash. Went into a bookshop, flipped through two books, stood for three minutes, came out.

Walked into a small park, sat on a bench for five minutes, watched pigeons—yes, Lunar City had pigeons; this city was determined to replicate everything about Earth including the pigeons, and I was beginning to understand why neither the Empire nor the Federation wanted to give it up; it was genuinely convincing, convincingly enough to be slightly maddening—then got up, went into an underpass, changed direction, came back up to street level. By this point, the grey coat had made two small errors.

The first: in the market, trying not to lose me, he cut through an extra alley and got oil on his shoes. The second: at the underpass exit, I came up on the left, he came up on the right, and we almost came face to face. He made a credible effort to look at his phone. His phone screen was off.

"…Sir," I said to him, in my head.

"If you intend to follow someone, at least turn the screen on."

"Or, at minimum, turn the phone on." I did not expose him. I did not need to lose him today. I only needed to confirm: there was a tail, mediocre at best, origin unclear, but not Imperial regular military—regular military shoes would not pick up oil that quickly. This was some smaller Federation organization, some intermediary, someone who had sent a person to observe Attaché Trainee Ayase Shiori, Federation Embassy, Lunar City. Possibly no hostile intent. Possibly a little. Possibly just routine.

In any case, the answer was the same: I would pretend not to have noticed. Today was not the day to do anything about him. After coming up from the underpass, I walked north, toward the elevated section of the city. This part of Lunar City had a promenade built along an artificial slope—the kind of space that tourists visited, and locals also visited, but neither group ever overlapped. At the end of the promenade was an open observation platform, facing the eastern half of the city. The Imperial zone.

I stepped up to the railing and took out the compact monocular from my waist pack. Ayase Shiori's luggage contained several things a civilian woman would not typically carry. This was one of them. But she was an Attaché Trainee, and a small observation instrument was defensible. After all, per the text on her badge: Security Cooperation and Protocol Coordination. Coordination benefited from a closer look. I trained the lens east. Imperial administrative buildings. The plaza. Flags. An obelisk. The spaceport.

The Imperial military spaceport at Copernicus was, bluntly, a large parking facility for ships. The city was jointly administered, so both sides had leased separate sections of the port, separated by a buffer zone that carried more political meaning than practical function. On the far side of the buffer: the Federation port, where I had disembarked. On this side: Imperial. And at the deepest section of the Imperial port— I turned the magnification up one notch. Another notch. Another.

"… Oh." I held the monocular steady. My expression remained exactly what it needed to be: an Attaché Trainee looking at something, showing nothing. Inside, I had already rolled my eyes three times. The new warship Wiesland had mentioned— Was sitting there. Openly. Fully visible. Without any apparent interest in concealment. Parked at the deepest berth in the Imperial military port. The problem was. There was another one beside it. And another beside that. And another. And another. Five. Five ships.

Five vessels of identical type, identical batch, identical finish, hull numbers in consecutive sequence. Lined up in a row, moored quietly in the port. The deep-blue Imperial flag drifting with unnatural ease in the low gravity. From this angle, I could even read the white stenciling on the hull sides—the kind of marking that only stayed crisp for the first three months after delivery. New construction. Five of them. In a row. Not one experimental vessel hidden away.

I am here, I am visible, and you may observe what you intend to do about it. I put the monocular away, returned it to my waist pack with perfect composure, and scratched my head.

"…Found the ships." I said it to the air, quietly.

"But there are five of them."

"All new construction." Wind came up from beyond the railing, carrying the permanently slightly-too-dry air of Lunar City. I stood where I was. Colonel Wiesland. When you sent me here. Did you already know there were five? I tried to run both possibilities. First: he knew. He told me one. Reason: testing me. Checking whether I would report the actual number. Checking whether I would hold composure on-site. Checking whether I would alter my own assessment. Second: he did not know. His intelligence only covered one.

Reason: Imperial security performed better than anticipated—or—the intelligence he gave me was never intended to give me the full picture. … The third possibility I did not want to think about. It arrived anyway. Third: he knew there were five, but told me one, so I would not refuse. So I would board the ship. So I would arrive at this observation platform and see this row for myself. So I would—"… Honestly." I scratched my head again, smoothed the wig back behind my ear, and kept my hands natural.

"You. Every single time." The wind continued. —Tonight, in the room. Then I can say something about it. I told myself. Still working now. I took one last look at the five ships and pressed the image into memory. Five. Not a visual error. Not refraction. Not sleep deprivation. Five. I very much wanted to say something to Wiesland right now. But not here. Not because Ayase Shiori would not address her superiors that way. Because I was wearing Ayase Shiori's face.

That face, standing on an observation platform, should carry no visible emotion. Whatever I wanted to say could wait until I was behind a closed, locked door, and then I would pick the shortest possible version. That was professional conduct. So I only smoothed my hair back behind my ear, as if I had simply been looking for a long time.

"…Found the ships." I said it quietly.

"He just has five of them." That sounded like a reasonable person. The unreasonable version could wait until tonight. The Hotel The hotel was on the Federation side of the central boulevard. Five stars. White stone exterior, bronze trim, two very formally dressed doormen at the entrance. The moment they saw my badge, they stepped aside. One made a small gesture toward the interior, indicating the front desk already expected me.

"Welcome, Miss Ayase." The desk clerk's voice was measured.

"A third-floor street-facing suite has been reserved for you. Very quiet. This is your key card."

"…Thank you." I took the card. No room number on the surface—standard practice at this level. The number lived inside the chip, visible only on presentation. Marginally useful for security. Completely useless against anyone who actually wanted to find you, since no one serious would locate a target by reading a key card's exterior. The design was mainly for the benefit of other guests in the same hotel: We value your privacy, so let us continue pretending none of us exist to each other.

"May I assist with your luggage?"

"No, thank you."

"Please let the concierge know if there is anything you need."

"… I appreciate it." I walked toward the elevator. The elevator had music. The kind that had no melody, only harmony—specifically designed to prevent awkward silence in enclosed spaces. I found myself wanting to know who invented this kind of music, and then imagining pressing their doorbell for an entire night. Third floor. Corridor. Door. Card to the reader. Green light. Click. Open. I walked in, closed the door, locked it, hung the Do Not Disturb sign, and let my shoulders drop half a centimeter.

Not releasing Ayase. Not that indulgent. Just letting the surface breathe for a moment. The wig was still on. The uniform was still on. The ID was still in place. Today's name was still in use. I had only let go of that particular, regulation-grade tension specific to junior attachés—dropped it one notch. Enough to breathe. Not enough to breathe like Hoshino Shimo.

"…Not done yet." I said it to myself.

"Stop stalling. Do the work first." I began to check the room. Not a polite check. A professional one. Door first. Interior lock, normal. No paper slipped under the gap, no listening wire along the frame. The peephole glass showed no abnormal reflection. The hotel procedure card on the hook behind the door: same position as in every hotel room I had ever been in. Undisturbed. Window next. Floor-to-ceiling, double-layer reinforced glass, dual-track curtains, mechanical and sensor-operated. Normal.

The balcony outside did not connect to the adjacent room—consistent with suite specifications. Walls. Three decorative paintings. First, nothing behind it. Second, nothing behind it. Third, nothing behind it. All normal. Normal to a slightly excessive degree. I pressed a note of caution in my head: in a hotel of this caliber, no anomaly was itself the most plausible anomaly. Which meant: if anyone had been in this room, they had been thorough. Thorough enough to make you believe nothing had been touched.

That level of thorough only came from one kind of person: someone who did not need to touch anything, because they already knew what I would do tonight. I knew this feeling. This feeling was called: I have been dropped into a room where everyone else arrived before me. Welcome back, Lieutenant. I offered Lieutenant a very perfunctory internal salute, then walked to the bathroom. No problems. Shower, water pressure, mirror angle, vent angle—all within normal range.

The mirror did not have that false-clarity quality of two-way glass. The screws on the vent cover had a thin layer of dust. Good. Dust on vent screws meant no one had removed them recently. Then the wardrobe, minibar, welcome fruit bowl on the desk, bedside table, sheets, pillow, under the bed, carpet corners— All of it. Every one. In order. No rushing, no alarm, no skipping. Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the center of the room.

"…Good." I nodded.

"Nothing obviously wrong."

"Nothing that was meant to be found." That was sufficient. Not because Ayase Shiori should think that way—but because I needed to supply this face with a judgment that held up. The person standing here today was not Hoshino Shimo. Hoshino Shimo would have complained about the hotel being as quiet as a mortuary and then checked the vents anyway. I checked the vents anyway. So in substance, not much difference. I walked back to the bed. The large case from the embassy clerk, laid flat on the mattress.

One size larger than the case I had organized in the cabin. Hard-shell, fingerprint lock. No labels, no markings, no security stickers. Immaculate in a way that was faintly unsettling. I stared at it for two seconds. Then I reached out and placed my fingers on the lock. And stopped. Not fear. Not hesitation. Something very strange. Very Hoshino Shimo. A very Hoshino Shimo desire to delay by three seconds.

Because I knew that once this case was open— The surface of Attaché Trainee Ayase Shiori would be pressed one layer deeper. Federation Embassy, Lunar City as an identity would recede to a more distant position. The name Hoshino Shimo would be moved into the drawer that needed to be used tonight. And the Lieutenant—the one who had kept her rank after the Yukikaze—would be pushed to the front.

Once this case was open, this room on the third floor of a five-star hotel, with its quiet corridor and its view of the central boulevard lights and its complimentary red apple on the desk— Would stop being a room. It would become a workspace. I held my fingertip above the lock. Outside, Lunar City was at midday. The artificial sky had been dialled up one notch, to its brightest setting for this hour, light falling along the curtain edge in a very thin, very white, very quiet line. I drew in a slow breath.

Not for courage. For rhythm.

"…All right," I said to myself.

"Let us see what Colonel Wiesland has prepared for me today." Fingertip to the lock. One second.