Elias looked at the machine, then at the bundles of evidence, then at the hidden white chamber built to outlast notice. He thought of the last shore under the red sun. He thought of how small one life was and how much harm one lie could still do before that small life ended.

"The warning matters," he said. "The proof matters. Home matters, if the machine can still carry us there. Not to win. To tell it. To make it impossible to bury."

Mara gave one short nod. Decision, not agreement. "Then divide the load. You carry what only you can read. I carry what can survive your collapse. And if that machine fails halfway—"

"You take the core." He met her eyes. "You do not spend the last margin dragging me."

She stared at him for a beat, weighing whether he meant it or only wanted to sound noble. Then she reached down, picked up the wrapped audit core, and shoved the smaller packet of copied pages into his hand.

"Fine," she said. "But if you go sentimental on me inside the field, I'll be furious."

A heavy impact sounded somewhere beyond the outer door. Then another. Metal on metal. Testing the chamber, or opening toward it.

The machine's rough hum faltered, recovered, and faltered again.