Zunoder found the camera route in a cracked mirror above a maintenance sink.
Someone had written RUN IF THE LIGHTS GO RED on the tile with a shaking finger. Good advice. Late advice. The mirror still showed Ty's face, but the reflection behind his shoulder was not the arena hallway. It was a school basement on Earth, split by static and cheap phone screens.
Zunoder leaned closer. The reflection did not match him. It wore Ty's eyes more gently than he did.
"There you are," he said.
The reflected face gave him the kind of half-smile Ty used when he was about to apologize before deciding whether he meant it. Zunoder hit the mirror. Glass cracked under Ty's knuckles, and the basement widened in broken pieces.
Jade sat on a milk crate with half her face hidden under gauze. Waddell stood over the freezer record with a pistol near one hand and a pencil stub near the other. Kieran sealed the service door with gold light and black thread. Tyree crouched beside a child. Rima watched the ceiling with the calm of someone waiting for it to betray them.
The stolen body leaned toward Jade so hard Zunoder's forehead touched a jagged edge of glass.
"Mine," he told the body.
The word tasted thin. He did not care. Thin words worked if enough people repeated them.
He pulled the hood lower over Ty's hair and stepped into the mirror's sightline. The hall stayed where it was. The mirror changed. It stopped reflecting and began sending.
On Earth, every phone that still had power buzzed. In the arena, every public crystal brightened with irresponsible hunger. Zunoder lifted both hands where people could see them. No sickles. No blue fire. No exposed bone. Just a bruised man with a split lip and familiar eyes damp enough to make cruelty look like caution.
"My name is Ty Hockenson," he said.
The Name Office mark under his tongue burned. He swallowed the heat.
"Something wearing my bones is trying to take the rest of my life."
Voices came through the network at once. Liar. He has Ty's face. The skeleton saved Jade. The girl is marked. The face looks hurt.
Zunoder let the noise braid. Truth did not need to die. It only needed to stand beside a simpler lie until frightened people picked the one that hurt less.
He looked into the cracked mirror as if speaking cost him. "I remember the apartment with the bad heater. I remember Jade laughing because I burned rice and tried to blame the pan. I remember snow on a park bench. I remember dying before I got home."
Jade stood so fast Kieran had to catch her arm. Good. The rice memory had been small enough to slip under armor.
Waddell's voice cut through one of the phones. "Do not repeat anything he says."
Zunoder nodded sadly, as if the warning proved him right. "They will tell you not to repeat me. They will call belief dangerous. They will put my name behind a locked door and call it protection."
Tyree moved the child away from the nearest phone. Civilians shifted behind him. The little boy with the broken dinosaur stared at the screen in an older woman's hand.
"Ask them why the skeleton gets blades and witnesses," Zunoder said, "while the body gets a warning label."
The mark under his tongue clicked.
Earth recognition moved. Not much. Enough.
Jade stepped into the phone's view. The gauze over her eye was stained at one edge. Her good eye looked tired instead of furious, and that was a problem. Anger could be framed. Exhaustion sounded honest before it meant to.
"You are not Ty," she said.
Zunoder let the body flinch. Some of it was real. "You want that to be true."
"I want a lot of stupid things. That is not one of them."
People in the basement looked at her. Zunoder tasted the risk in that. They saw she wanted the face to be real and chose against it anyway. That made her stronger. It also made her more expensive to break.
He touched Ty's chest. "Ask me something."
Kieran snapped, "No."
Waddell said, "Absolutely not."
Rima added, "That is bait with shoes."
Jade kept looking at him. "Ty saved me by cutting the strike away. What did he leave?"
The body knew. White thread. Death claim. Her cost. The answer rose from muscle and grief instead of memory. Zunoder caught it behind his teeth and smiled through the pain.
"The part of you he was afraid to touch."
Jade's face changed by almost nothing. The room felt it anyway. The older woman holding Mason's phone whispered, "How would he know that?"
Waddell turned. "Ma'am."
Too late. The mark clicked again.
Zunoder leaned closer. "I know because I was there."
Tyree moved between the children and the camera. "Cut the phones."
"No," Jade said.
Everyone looked at her.
She hated the choice. Zunoder could see it in her mouth before she spoke. "If we cut them, he says we hid. We answer with the record."
The body warmed at her courage. Zunoder bit the inside of Ty's cheek until the warmth stopped feeling like his.
Behind him, inside the cracked mirror where no bird could fit, a red-eyed crow landed on the frame. Zunoder did not turn.
"Tell Erebos," he whispered, too low for the feed, "I do not need his scraps."
The crow opened its beak. Jade's laugh did not come this time.
A child's voice crossed the feed instead.
"Miss Jade?"
Mason Bell held the broken dinosaur to his chest and looked at Ty's face on the phone.
"Why does he sound sad if he is lying?"
Zunoder lowered his eyes. The best lies knew when to let someone innocent do the work.
Jade did not answer the child right away. That mattered too. Zunoder watched the room watch her: the older woman with the phone, the wounded man by the table, Tyree with one hand hovering near Mason's shoulder, Waddell trying to decide whether silence had become dangerous. Jade looked at Ty's face on the screen as if she could peel it open and find the missing part by force of will alone.
"Because he has his voice," she said at last. "And maybe some of his pain."
The basement absorbed that badly.
Zunoder smiled before he could stop himself.
Then Jade added, "Pain does not make him safe."
Kieran's gold line brightened along the door. Waddell wrote the sentence down. That offended Zunoder more than shouting would have. Shouting could be framed as panic. A written rule survived the moment that made it necessary.
The mark under his tongue stopped clicking. For now.