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Her mouth had tightened.

Information again.

She had asked. I had decided what she was allowed to know. The same argument we had already had. I understood why it angered her. Understanding did not mean I could alter years of operational discipline because she disliked it. At least that was what I told myself.

“Talia.”

She looked at me.

“I do not know who placed those identifiers in reproductive records.”

“Okay.”

“I do not know why.”

“Okay.”

“I did not know mine was there.”

That made her expression soften slightly. It bothered me more than her anger.

“But you know what kind of identifier it is.”

“Yes.”

“And now you know somebody who shouldn’t have it does.”

“Yes.”

She studied me for several seconds. “So we’re both targets.”

The statement settled between us. I had not considered myself one. Ghosts were instruments. Not targets. We were the thing sent after targets.

But someone had queried a dormant safehouse shortly after I failed to complete an authorized termination. My own dead identity had appeared inside altered reproductive files. Those facts existed whether I liked the conclusion or not.

“Possibly.”

Talia gave me a look. “Your commitment to understatement is impressive.”

I returned my attention to the route.

She was quiet again.

Then her voice came more carefully. “Does this mean you’re not taking me back?”

“No.”

She stared at me. “No, you’re not taking me back?”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders relaxed. Only slightly. “Why?”

Because returning her would mean surrendering the only person who had seen the records before they were buried. Because Sera’n was gone. Because my mission file contained claims that increasingly appeared manufactured. Because someone within a system I had trusted for years had authorized the death of a fertile human female while concealing information from me.

All valid answers.

The one that mattered most was simpler.