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“And your status.”

Veyr stopped moving. No blink. No shift of his hand on the blanket.

I felt it immediately.

Anik did too. He set down the slate he’d been holding and waited.

“The military review is complete enough to begin reversing your casualty classification.”

Silence.

Veyr’s face gave away almost nothing. His mouth stayed flat. His eyes stayed on Anik.

I had learned enough to see everything anyway. The pause before he answered. The way his fingers pressed once into the fabric.

“Begin?” he asked.

“You have been dead for eight years.”

“Nine in some systems.”

Anik’s expression hardened. “That does not improve the situation.”

“No.”

“Military records can be corrected quickly.”

“And civilian?”

“Less quickly.”

Veyr looked at the wall beside the medical monitors. Not at them. At the wall.

Anik continued. “Property records. Identity credentials. Tax history. Civil status. Medical archives.”

With each word Veyr’s shoulders dropped a fraction, until he sat deeper against the pillows, and I could almost see him regretting coming back to life more with every category.

Then Anik said the one that mattered.

“Family notification.”

Veyr went quiet, the way he did when he was reading a room he didn’t like.

I looked at him.

His hand rested motionless on the blanket.

Anik’s voice became quieter. “They have not been contacted.”

Veyr’s eyes met his, and he gave a single, slow nod. “You honored my request.”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, thin and tight.

“Thank you.” The words came out low, scraped raw.

Anik inclined his head just enough to acknowledge the effort. “But that cannot remain indefinite.”