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It was not. The biological access event occurred almost two years after my legal death.

My gaze locked on the date field, the implications settling like a cold weight in my gut. Talia’s focus shifted from the screen to my face. “That’s new information,” she observed, her tone carefully neutral.

“It is.”

“Could it be routine archive maintenance?”

“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. I forced my voice lower. “Military biological archives are not accessed without an official request.”

Her gaze sharpened, pupils dilating slightly as she leaned in. “So someone requested something of yours—after you were officially dead.”

“Apparently.”

She studied me for a long moment, her expression softening with something that felt dangerously like pity. “And you never knew.”

“No.” The admission tasted like ash.

The idea produced an unexpected reaction. Not fear. Violation.

I had surrendered my name. My legal existence. Contact with my family. I had not surrendered that.

Talia must have seen something in my face because her voice softened. “You didn’t authorize it.”

“No.”

“Could the Veil?”

“Potentially, for operational medical use.”

“But reproductive research?”

“No.”

She sat back.

Neither of us spoke for several seconds.

Then she said, “So whoever did this wasn’t just collecting records.”

I looked at the date again. “No.”

“They were using something.”

“Yes.”

We did not know what. Not yet. But the question had changed. That mattered.

Talia reached for another file and stopped before touching the screen. “Can I?”

The request surprised me. She could already access the reconstruction. She knew that. But this was one of my military cross-references. Restricted. Mine.

“Yes.”

Her fingers moved over the display. She opened the record and began comparing dates.

The same person who had spent days fighting every boundary I placed in front of her had asked before crossing this one.

I thought again of my mother. My sister.