Location: Shared Quarters, Caleront
Time: Cycle Day 13.00
Tags: cycle-mark, Veinshot scent, hidden intel, return tension, Tattoo pulse, concealed loyalty
The door opened with the hush of a breath held too long.
No entry chime. No announcement.
CirrusV stepped through like he’d never left—though the Tattoo warmed beneath his collar as if to correct the lie.
Inside, the light was gentler than it should’ve been. Calibrated for quiet return.
Warm where he expected cold.
Leloma didn’t move.
She sat low, leg folded, ankle hooked behind one knee. The screen before her glowed soft-blue—scrolling. A stylus turned once in her hand, then stilled.
One finger brushed the corner of the mesh. The document folded inward, line by line, vanishing into false static.
Not rushed.
Just… precisely timed.
She didn’t look up.
CirrusV paused near the threshold.
Dust from the corridor loosened at his heels.
The Tattoo throbbed once—an almost-heat along the upper spine. Recognition. Or warning. He wasn’t sure.
“You’re late by half a cycle,” Leloma said.
The stylus clicked once against ceramic.
“And just early enough to catch me off guard.”
“Didn’t want to be predictable.”
“You’re rarely that.”
She stood. Not stiff. Not smooth. A diplomat’s calibration of both.
Crossed to the prep counter. Checked the kettle orb, though it was already humming.
CirrusV set the pack down quietly.
Its outer seam still bore a scan-tag from Port Letho.
He hadn’t removed it.
The lighting adjusted as the room recalibrated occupancy—filters leaning duskward.
“I thought you’d signal.”
“I didn’t.”
She turned then.
Not fully. Just enough to confirm.
The scar above his right eye hadn’t faded.
Neither had the look behind it.
“You look worse.”
He nodded. “Feel better.”
She didn’t ask.
He didn’t explain.
The kettle orb clicked off with a sound like withheld commentary.
Steam rose as she poured—two shallow ceramics, one with an extra half-measure of stimulant.
She placed it near him. Not close. Near.
Next to it: a bowl of shardnuts.
Dark shell. Pale dusting. Just how he took them.
The screen behind her was black now.
But a faint glyph blinked once, near the edge.
CISO signature. Encrypted queue.
Likely still listening.
CirrusV didn’t look at it.
And Leloma didn’t look at him.
But the room was already half-prepared for him.
The Tattoo eased—just slightly.
And something in him, long-fractured, felt the edges smooth.
Want to cue the next scene? Or let this one settle for a while and build the others around it?