Pages upon pages of summaries and reports from projects around the world followed the damning introduction. Nithya reeled at the number of cases where the test simulations were inconclusive at best and potentially dangerous at worst. Bloody hell. Synaxel must have blocked her data access because it showed problematic designs being sold on the market. She would bet the last of her money that this explained the synaptic fatigue afflicting Welga.

Nithya swallowed a gulp of tea, grateful for the soothing warmth as it slid down her throat. It counteracted the roulette ride of anguish her life had taken lately.

Focus. Keep your mind on the report.

She wasn’t used to doing analysis without her agent, but she didn’t dare to access Sita for this. A stranger had sent the document. If he had noticed her queries, then others—more dangerous and powerful others—might pay attention to her, too.

Nithya blinked as sleep blurred her eyes. How could she feel tired when so much adrenaline coursed through her blood? The document in her hands could prove intentional negligence and false claims on the part of the biggest drug and pill funders in the world. And yet, the resignation letter from Josephine Lee indicated that they couldn’t be prosecuted, not under the laws of 2090. Nithya doubted much had changed since then, but with the right information, perhaps lives could be saved, including Welga’s.

She called up the last version of the simulation game framework from Zeli in her visual. She paged through the malfeasance data, pausing whenever Synaxel appeared in the text, until she found an entry on custom zips—a summary, no numbers. She needed raw data. She kept turning pages, unwilling to give up hope until the last… and there, four sheets before the bottom of the stack, an appendix had the details she needed.

Nithya entered the parameters from the paper into Zeli’s tool and set any unspecified variables to scan across typical ranges. The simulation wouldn’t finish until morning. She could do nothing more for now, and knew she ought to sleep. Her body was still recovering from pregnancy.

She stood, stretched, and tiptoed past the beds to open the balcony door. The patter of rain interleaved the space between her aunt’s snores. She stepped out and filled her lungs as a stray breeze broke through the hives of Chennai, carrying with it the perfume of night-blooming jasmine mingled with petrichor. The primal scents eased the tension in her neck and shoulder muscles.

Spray cooled her skin, though the air remained sultry. She stayed on the balcony, watching lights move on the streets and wink between the leaves of distant trees, until her body swayed with exhaustion. She avoided the time displayed in her visual. When morning arrived, she would deal with her lack of sleep as she had for years: one sluggish thought at a time.