“Shame, then?”
I slide into the booth. “I need a name.”
He exhales like it’s a game. “You always do.”
“This one’s personal.”
Feron blinks slow. “Girl trouble?”
I don’t answer.
He chuckles. “Ah. The dancer.”
I tense. Just enough for him to notice.
“Didn’t peg you for sentimental.”
“I’m not. She’s in danger.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“She got flagged. I want to know who.”
“Coalition?”
I nod.
He drums his fingers on the sticky table. “You know what asking me means.”
“Yeah. But you owe me.”
He holds up two fingers. “One and a half, Roja. That’s what I owe. This makes two.”
“You trace the request, we’re square.”
He leans back, studying me. “You’re shaking the wrong tree, friend. You don’t want the fruit that falls.”
“Try me.”
He slides his datapad from his coat. “Give me your timeframe.”
“Last three weeks. Jark administration backend. Someone used shell credentials.”
He whistles. “You always pick the fun ones.”
The minutes stretch long. He’s faster than he lets on, hands dancing over keys like he’s playing some grimy piano only he can hear. His jaw tightens partway through.
When he speaks again, it’s soft.
“Well. Shit.”
“What?”
“You were right. This wasn’t just a flag—it was a mark. Cleric stationed under a certain Vasso. Ever heard of him?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Alliance intelligence. Dirtiest kind.”
“Bingo. Halik’s request came through cloaked in religious clearance, but Vos scrubbed the path. That means it’s personal.”
