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Self-defense.

Mine.

I quickly delete the remaining footage.

I bypass the archive through the maintenance panel, corrupt the segment markers, sever the sync request, and overwrite the local file with blank feed from the empty corridor. The footage disappears from the visible log.

Not gone forever, maybe. Nothing digital ever is. But gone enough for now.

I pocket the flash drive with the earlier file still on it.

I leave the security annex without checking the hallway, without thinking through the consequences of any of this.

Then I run.

My lungs burn.

Images flash with every step.

Ella on the bed.

Audrey with the belt.

Audrey falling.

The unnatural angle.

I’ve seen that angle before. Not Audrey’s body. Not that room.

Another night.

Another body.

The old guest wing is empty when I reach it. The door to bedroom three is half open.

I stop outside for one fraction of a second. Because once I step inside, this becomes real. Not something I can delete from a server or corrupt in an archive.

I push the door open.

Ella sits on the floor near the bed, knees drawn to her chest, one hand clamped over her mouth. Her hair is loose and tangled around her face. Scratches mark her cheek and neck. One sleeve of her uniform is torn at the shoulder.

Audrey lies near the cedar chest.

Still.

Too still.

I cross the room and crouch beside the body. Press my fingers to her throat.

Nothing.

Check her wrist.

Nothing.

Death was most likely immediate. A fall at the wrong speed against the wrong edge. There may be no blood because the damage is internal. That almost helps.

I draw in a breath through my nose and force my mind to work.