Confession in the Dark
Vey's office smells of recycled coffee and ozone. Her terminal yields to the bypass chip on the third try, and a confession log unfolds across the screen in her own clipped voice.
Earth is viable. But the reactor has eighteen months, maybe less. Whichever way they vote, they must vote hard—a stampede, not a debate.
You sit back, the chair creaking beneath the weight of what you know. Two futures hang in front of you, and only you can choose which one bleeds into daylight.