The tense, unhappy set to Rinzler's frame won't vanish. It joins a faint catch beneath his constant rattling: not in error, but in agitation. She assumes. She assumes, she knows—she acts like she does, but she can't.

If Yori understood what he meant, she wouldn't be here.

His fault. His failure. The black mask jerks sideways, frustrated dismissal; most of his allies don't even know what he was. Hands curl against the holographic keys. Try again.

Recovered files. Didn't fix —a beat of lag; the default term mismatched— code.
Don't want to go back.

It's not a matter of can't. Not something time or patience could be expected to correct. He could, and he hadn't, and there's no breakthrough to hope for, no change to expect. He's what's standing in her way. It's selfish and wrong and Rinzler should have told her when she arrived. But he'd been weak (ashamed), and he's no better now.

The helmet bows, sharp point occluding the four lights under the enforcer's throat. Sound rises and falls, and there's a distortion traced in static that almost, almost makes a 'you'.

No purpose: waiting.