"Kieran."

He stopped.

"Why?"

The question hung between us. Simple. Enormous. The kind of question that, once answered honestly, changes the shape of everything that comes after.

He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that I could hear the night patrol changing shifts outside, boots on gravel, a murmured exchange. Long enough that the candle I'd lit hours ago guttered and nearly went out.

"Because the system failed you once," he said. "And I won't let it fail you again."

My chest did something. A tightness, followed by an expansion — like a fist unclenching for the first time in years. I didn't let it show. I was good at that. Six years of practice.

"You barely know me."

"I know what I found in that silver room. I know what the midwife said. I know what your daughter looks like when she sees you — like someone finally turned the lights on." He paused. "And I know what a system looks like when it's about to fail the same person twice, because I've watched it happen to other people and done nothing. I'm not doing nothing this time."

I studied him. The moonlight through the tiny window caught his profile — strong bones, tired eyes, the tension in his shoulders that said he'd been carrying this decision for days. He'd pushed for the tribunal against opposition. He'd refused to shut down the investigation. He'd made enemies of three allied Alphas for a rogue woman he had no obligation to help.

I almost touched his hand. My fingers moved — half an inch, maybe less. Then I stopped. Curled them into my palm.

"Seven days," I said.

"Seven days."

"I'll be ready."

He nodded. Got up. Looked at me one more time from the doorway — a look that lasted a beat longer than it needed to, that said something his mouth was too disciplined to form.

Then he left. And I sat there with my evidence spread around me like armor, and I started building the case that would get my daughter back.

I worked until dawn. Organized the photos chronologically. Wrote a timeline — everything from Lily's birth to her appearance at our border, every date I could pin down, every gap that needed filling. I rehearsed the midwife's testimony in my head, anticipating challenges. I drafted my own statement three times, threw out the first two, kept the third because it was the shortest and the truest.

At sunrise, Lily knocked on my door. She'd started doing that — seeking me out in the mornings, padding down the hallway in the too-big socks Isla had found for her.

"Are you busy?"

I swept the papers into a stack. Covered the photos. "Never too busy for you."

She climbed into my lap. She did that now, too — without asking, without flinching. Just climbed up like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the space between my arms had been built specifically for her.

"Isla says something important is happening in seven days."

"It is."

"About me?"

"About you." I smoothed her hair. The tangles were almost gone now — we'd spent an evening with a comb and a jar of coconut oil, both of us laughing at how bad I was at it. "Some people are going to ask questions. About where you came from, and who you belong with."

Lily pressed her face against my collarbone. "I belong here."

"I know." I held her tighter. "I know you do."

"Will they try to take me back?"

The question was quiet. Steady. Five years old and she already knew how to brace for bad news. I hated that. I hated that she'd learned it.

"No one is taking you anywhere you don't want to go. That's a promise."

"Okay." She relaxed against me. Trusting. Absolute.

I rested my chin on the top of her head and stared at the wall of evidence. Seven days. Everything I had. Everything I was.

It would be enough. It had to be.