The shuttle didn't carry a Triangle emblem.
That, more than anything else, told Dreyden what this was.
Neutral hull. Matte slate finish. No banners. No declarations. The kind of transport designed to move valuable things without inviting attention—or blame.
The Triangle hadn't sent him somewhere.
It had let him be sent.
Dreyden boarded last.
Not because he was late.
Because waiting allowed him to watch who hesitated.
Lucas stepped on first, posture composed but eyes alert, scanning reflective surfaces out of habit. Raisel followed without pause, expression distant, like she'd already categorized the risk and found it acceptable. Karel lingered half a second—long enough for doubt to be visible—then squared his shoulders and stepped aboard.
No instructors.
No escorts.
Only a single liaison seated near the cockpit, hands folded, eyes politely unfocused.
An observer, not a guardian.
The door sealed with a soft pressure hiss.
No countdown.
No announcement.
