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“Yes.” His voice lowered. “I almost didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me.”

“Your status has been queried.”

The muscles across my shoulders tightened. “My operational status?”

“No.”

That was worse.

“Which?”

“Death archive.”

I did not answer.

Orun continued. “Twice in the last cycle.”

“Source?”

“Masked.”

“Veil?”

A pause. Then he said, “I cannot prove it, but…”

“But?”

“But it used an old military bridge that should not exist anymore.”

The same kind of architecture that had pinged the safehouse.

My gaze went to Talia. She was watching me openly now, questions waiting.

“Someone is looking for both sides of you,” Orun said quietly, the line crackling with static. “Whatever this mission is, you are not the only thing being tracked.”

“I know.” My voice came out flat.

That made him pause. I could almost see him leaning closer to his own receiver. “You know?”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?” His tone sharpened, edged with professional curiosity.

“I cannot tell you.”

He exhaled sharply. “You are becoming irritating.”

A faint, grim smile touched my mouth. “I was always irritating.”

“No,” he corrected, and I could hear him shaking his head. “You were quiet. Different problem.”

Despite the tension humming through the room, something almost familiar moved through me—a flicker of the ease that had once existed between soldiers who understood each other without explanation. It was gone quickly, smothered by the weight of what we were discussing.

“Do not access the designation again,” I ordered, my gaze fixed on the dark window.

“Gladly.” The word was clipped, final.