Kristi.
I bite down on the name like it’s glass in my mouth. It still cuts, but I won’t spit it out. Not yet. Not until I know what part of me is bleeding because of her, and what part’s already dead.
The council doesn’t care about any of us. Not really. They want optics. Compliance rates. Power charts with tidy little dips and spikes to present to shareholders. They don’t care that half my delivery manifests go missing in transit now, or that the sweetroot farmer stopped calling back.
They don’t care that we can’t get new filtration nozzles because “the parts are being rerouted to priority commerce zones.”
Bullshit.
They’re squeezing us. Softly. Slowly. Like watching someone drown by inches.
The restaurant’s still open—for now. But I know the look on our suppliers’ faces when they show up late, twitchy and apologizing. They’re scared. Of fines. Of blowback. Of being seen as loyal to the wrong people.
It’s not loyalty anymore.
It’s survival.
Last night, a group of loyal regulars came in. Sat at the corner table like always. Laughed like they meant it. Tried to order my father’s slow-cooked karkin stew. I didn’t have the spices for it.
They asked for her.
“Where’s Kristi?” one of them said. A woman. Half-Human, half-Voreni. Kind eyes. Used to bring her daughter in with her.
I didn’t think.
I just growled, “She’s not welcome.”
It came out like a curse. Too loud. Too hard.
The whole table went silent.
I caught the look in the kid’s eyes before they left—wide, confused, like she’d seen her favorite storybook flipped upside down.
I hated myself for it.
But I didn’t call them back.
Tonight, I stay late.
Staff’s gone. Lights dimmed. I’m cleaning out the dry storage myself. Crates of powdered resin. Stale spice bricks. A few tins of protein paste that expired last season.
When I step into the alley to dump the waste bin, I see it.
A red tag.
Slapped across the back door like a fresh wound.
Scheduled Inspection: Health Compliance Audit – 14 Days.
The ink’s fresh. The adhesive not even fully dry. No signature. No prior warning.
I scan it again. It glows hot on the metal.
This isn’t random.
This is a warning.
A message.
