Something walked out of Sector Seven wearing a dead man's face.
Private Edric Maur was recovered at the edge of the Veil breach beneath Lower Antioch, seated among the remains of his patrol. Nine men entered. Only one was found waiting. His rifle was untouched. His body unmarked. When they called his name, he answered.
He remembers everything.
Inside the interrogation chamber, Maur delivers his testimony across three recorded sessions, each one measured, precise, and unbroken. Distances are exact. Sequences unfold in perfect order. Voices in the dark are recalled without hesitation. He does not pause to think. He does not correct himself.
He simply continues.
Inquisitor Sera Vael has spent twenty years dismantling falsehoods, tracing the subtle fractures where memory gives way under pressure. She listens for it now-the hesitation, the inconsistency, the moment where the story fails.
It never comes.
Instead, the account advances with a quiet, deliberate clarity. Questions settle, and answers follow too quickly. Silences linger, but never long enough. Each moment aligns seamlessly with the next.
Not like memory. Like design.
Beyond the chamber, the war grinds on. The breach remains open.
Inside, the testimony continues.
Carefully. Patiently.
As if it were meant to reach someone.
And now it has.
