The meeting room smelled faintly of coffee and polished wood, a sterile sort of place designed for efficiency rather than comfort. The long table was filled with committee members, some flipping through their neatly bound agenda packets, others murmuring quietly to their neighbours. The air carried that particular tension that came with discussions about funding—controlled, polite, but edged with quiet ruthlessness.
Leo sat near the middle, his hands folded in front of him, listening as yet another discussion on 'resource reallocation' unfolded. It was all carefully worded—no one outright said they were gutting the Lyell's funding, but it didn't need to be spelled out. The implications were all there, buried under talk of "strategic investment" and "long-term sustainability."
They were choosing other priorities. More students, more research grants, more money. And forensic pathology didn't seem to fit..
Leo had seen this coming. He'd sat in meetings like this before, heard the same justifications, the same vague reassurances. But today, something about it sat differently with him. Maybe it was the week he'd had. Maybe it was the sight of an empty seat at the Lyell, the echo of a voice that should have still been there.
The thought sent a flicker of heat through his chest, a slow burn of something between frustration and exhaustion.
Across the table, the Deputy Vice Chancellor—a slim, sharp-suited man named Gregson—was speaking in that careful, measured way administrators had perfected.
"…We all think very highly of the work the Lyell does, Leo. I want to make that clear."
Leo exhaled slowly, pressing his fingertips against the table. Here it comes.
"But as things stand, we need to look more closely at where our funding goes."
"And we're just not glamorous enough, are we?" Leo murmured, his voice quiet but carrying across the table. He glanced up, meeting Gregson's gaze head-on. "You need to concentrate on things that bring in students. Like the new Science Centre."
Gregson hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before offering a thin smile. "I can't lie and say that doesn't help. More students mean more money, and that's what we need. More investment will benefit the Lyell in the long run."
Leo let out a slow breath. "That may be after the damage is done."
Gregson didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched for a moment, uncomfortable but not unexpected.
Leo glanced around the table, taking in the faces of the people who held the future of the Lyell in their hands. Some of them he knew—had spoken to at previous meetings, exchanged pleasantries with at university events. Others were new, unfamiliar, their expressions politely blank.
For a moment, he considered letting it go. He'd fought these battles before. He knew how they played out.
But then he thought about the Lyell. About the cases. About Nikki.
He knew how this worked. Decisions like these weren't made in meetings—they were made in quiet conversations long before. This? This was just the performance of due process.
He had half a mind to stay quiet, to let the bureaucrats make their decision and fight it later. But then he thought about Nikki. About the empty space at the Lyell. About the families waiting for answers that only they could give.
And suddenly, he couldn't let it go.
He stood up.
The murmur of conversation died away as heads turned toward him.
Leo took a steady breath.
"I must apologise," he said. "I didn't submit anything for the agenda. In fact, I wasn't going to say anything at all. Because, to be honest, I didn't think anything I said would change your minds."
He reached down and picked up the funding proposal in front of him, flicking through the pages. The words swam slightly—long paragraphs of financial projections and restructuring plans—but he wasn't really reading them. He was giving himself a second. A moment to gather his thoughts.
When he spoke again, his voice was level, calm. But there was steel underneath.
"As you might have heard, one of my colleagues is currently on life support."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. A shift, subtle but perceptible, went through the room.
"She was put there by someone who broke into our building," Leo continued, his grip on the papers tightening slightly. "And we—along with the police—are working to find out who and why. Because that's what we do. We find answers. We bring justice. We give people—victims—the dignity of the truth. And if your plans go ahead, if you cut our budget this drastically, I can't truthfully say that will continue to be the case."
He looked around the table again. Some of the committee members shifted uncomfortably. Others kept their expressions carefully neutral.
"What we do, every day, is give people something worth more than money. We give them a voice when they no longer have one. We tell their stories—unfettered by politics, by status, by financial barriers—so that others can keep telling theirs." His voice lowered, steady but unyielding. "What you're proposing will force us to look to private companies. And if that happens, you might not like the stories we're able to tell."
Silence followed. The kind that carried weight.
Leo wasn't naive enough to think this would change everything. But at the very least, they couldn't say they hadn't been warned.
Then, just as someone shifted in their seat, preparing to speak, a shrill ringtone shattered the silence.
Leo's stomach dropped.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The name on the screen made his breath catch.
Janet.
A cold weight settled in his chest.
She knew he was in this meeting. She wouldn't call unless—
He swallowed and looked up at the committee. "I'm sorry. I need to take this."
Without waiting for a response, he stepped out of the room and lifted the phone to his ear.
"Janet?"
A pause. Too long.
"Leo, I think you'd better come to the hospital." Her voice was controlled. Neutral. That meant nothing good.
His fingers tightened around the phone. "What's happened?"
Another pause.
"Just come."
And just like that, the rest of the meeting—the budget cuts, the politics, the fight—ceased to matter.