The statement settled strangely, resisting easy interpretation.
"What does that mean?" Thessian asked.
Her breathing became uneven. "There were voices. Doors. Rooms." Her gaze drifted past him. "They never let us see who was speaking." She swallowed. "We never saw faces. Never heard names. Never saw anything that could have told us where we were or who was in charge or how large it was."
Something shifted beneath Thessian's composure—not visible, but present. Because that was not secrecy as a precaution. That was the systematic removal of every possible thread that could be followed later. No faces. No names. No identifiable leaders. Nothing that survived the death of any single participant. A machine built to outlast every person operating it.
