Mike stared down at his coffee. The surface was oily, dark, and motionless, reflecting nothing but the dim, sickly glow of the overhead lights.
He wasn't thinking about caffeine; he was mentally connecting dots, each one a potential tripwire.
"I didn't cause the inspection," Victor said suddenly.
His voice wasn't defensive; it lacked the defensive posture of guilt. It was a flat statement of fact, delivered with the detached precision of a man stating the weather.
He knew how this conversation could pivot, and he was preempting the accusation before it could take root.
"I know," Mike said, finally lifting his gaze. "The inspection was already a live variable before I started digging."
"I'm not interested in who lit the fuse; I'm interested in how fast the explosion spreads."
"I became aware of it early on," Victor continued, leaning forward fractionally, the conspiratorial edge sharpening his tone. "And I made a note of its timeline in relation to the Whitmore situation."
