THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM
When I stepped out, towel around my waist, Damian was waiting.
Fresh bandage. Fresh shirt, black linen, sleeves rolled. Bare feet. Hair damp. He’d showered in the guest bath.
He looked at me like I was the only thing that existed.
“Come.”
Dinner was simple, grilled fish, plantain, chilled white wine. We ate on the terrace. Ocean breeze. Stars sharp overhead. No words at first. Just the sound of waves and cutlery.
Halfway through the second glass, he spoke.
“The cloud wipe held. Eze’s dead-man switch never triggered. Horizon’s backups were seized before they could mirror anything. The videos they had, the ones they threatened with, are gone. Burned. Every server scrubbed.”