THE HANDLE turned once.
Every person in the white room looked at it.
Caleb's silver hand rose before thought. He caught the motion at his wrist, closed his fist, and made his arm wait.
The handle kept moving.
It was old brass. That made it worse. The center had built rooms out of light and law and bone memory, then placed a cheap apartment handle on the painted door as if the next part only needed somebody polite enough to open.
Tali had her sidearm up.
Kikaru had his blade.
Iharu pulled Sefa behind his shoulder, and Sefa shoved him aside with a sound too tired to count as outrage.
"Exit?" Soma asked.
Sam held the Record against his chest. "A handle is a claim. Ask who is holding the other side."
Caleb already knew.
The door opened inward.
Elara stood outside it.
Flesh. Coat. Rain.
