He sat behind his desk, back straight, eyes on the file in his hands. Sa posture. Sa gray undershirt and sleeveless black vest. No rank pins. No ceremony.
The room was no different than last ti—plain walls, matte black floor, lights slightly too dim. A single chair positioned in front of his desk. The second one had been removed.
He gestured without speaking.
Elias stepped forward and sat first. Kikaru followed. Paul stood for a mont longer before taking the last seat, jaw clenched tight.
The door slid shut behind them.
Still, Geras didn’t speak.
He turned one more page in the file, then closed it. Folded his hands over it. Let the silence sit.
Then, finally:
"You were there," he said. "You saw how it ended."
No one answered. Not right away.
Geras leaned forward. His knuckles tapped once on the file.
"I want each of you to say it. Out loud. What you saw. What it ant."
Elias didn’t look away. "Randalp is dead."
Geras didn’t react. "Continue."
"Vincent used Colby’s Ikona," Elias said. "We’re sure of it. No delay. No instability. Like it was already his."
Kikaru didn’t look up. "It was a ga," she muttered. "You’ve probably heard by now—soone new showed up. Not the Doctor. Just appeared, said it was a match. One-on-one. Randalp didn’t make it. Vincent used Colby’s Ikona at the last second."
Geras crossed his arms. "That explains the charred body in his pod," he said, voice flat. "Still... how does sothing like that happen inside a dream?"
No one answered right away.
"I’ve been thinking about that," Paul finally said. "It’s just a theory, but... maybe it wasn’t a dream. Not in the way we think. If the shard connects directly to the soul, maybe death inside that space breaks sothing deeper. And the Doctor—he’s been talking to all of us. Sa conversations, sa timing. That has to an sothing."
Kikaru nodded slowly. "The shard might not just be a tool. It could be a space. Sothing layered. Outside normal ti."
Geras exhaled. Quiet. No disbelief, just the weight of one more thing he couldn’t explain.
"Great," he said. "Another wrinkle. Another angle we’re behind on."
Silence stretched.
Elias shifted slightly, hands folding together. "Do you think the shards are why the aliens are coming?"
Geras didn’t answer.
"They only started showing up after the shards appeared," Elias continued. "I know we don’t have proof. But if they’re after sothing... shouldn’t we at least be asking what?"
No one moved.
Then—quietly, Geras spoke.
"You’re not wrong to ask," he said. "But right now, we’re not in a position to find out. We’re barely surviving."
And honestly I don’t know if they are or aren’t... the last two attacks have felt so sudden and fast; they never really seed to be looking for anything and just wanted carnage.
He stated bringing his hand to his face trying to push down so mories.
"But even with how it ended," Geras said, "we’ve already sent word to Randalp’s family. Burial protocols are underway. We’ll make sure they’re taken care of."
He didn’t pause long.
"But after the resort... we didn’t have a choice. Exposure was unavoidable. The world knows now. About your Ikonas. About you."
A few heads shifted. No one spoke.
"So of you might’ve seen it already."
He turned to the wall behind them. A soft hum broke the silence as a screen slid down from the ceiling.
The image flickered to life—a man in a sharp black suit, white tie knotted tight at the neck, standing behind a podium.
Paul turned his head slightly. "That’s the face of the nation," he muttered. "Without him, we wouldn’t have made it through the second wave... right?"
Geras nodded once. "Warden Commandant. One of the three who handed us over to military control after the initial breach. He’s the one who pushed for centralized operations. Him and two others. Technically, they oversee everything."
A pause. Then:
"He’s been a symbol for years."
Geras’s eyes stayed on the screen.
"Listen."
The screen activated with a muted pulse. Elias stood near the back wall of the observation room, arms folded, eyes locked on the man who now filled the display. Black suit. White tie. No insignia. No smile.
The press sward him imdiately. Reporters shouted over each other, questions crashing together.
"Who authorized the lockdown?"
"Why were these people kept secret?"
"Is the footage real?"
"What happened on the resort island?!"
The Commandant didn’t blink. He lifted one hand. The voices didn’t stop—but the system did its job. Volu dropped, filters engaged, and the questions faded to static.
The Commandant straightened his stance, voice steady against the low hum of static bleeding through the filtered press feed.
"One month ago," he said, "the lives of one hundred people on our world changed without warning."
Elias shifted slightly. He recognized the cadence now—asured, practiced, but still grounded in truth. No one in the room moved. All eyes were on the screen.
"We moved fast. As fast as possible," the Commandant continued. "To gather those affected. To protect them—and to protect those around them."
A map surfaced briefly behind him. Red markers flickered across several districts.
"At the ti of this eting, we have located and secured over forty."
The questions broke through again. Softer than before, but sharp.
"Forty out of one hundred?" one striked back
"What about the rest?" another yelled
"Is there a plan for the ones you’ve missed?" a worried one yelled louder
The Commandant didn’t blink. "We’re working with international partners to monitor all sectors. Shard exposure doesn’t follow borders. Our protocols have expanded beyond them."
More noise. Another reporter stepped forward.
"How many of the missing are considered dangerous?"
"And how many have already killed?"
He didn’t answer directly. Instead, the screen shifted to a still from the footage—bodies mid-motion in the fog, one of them glowing with a sharp amber pulse at the spine.
"The video you’ve seen is real," he said.
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