“Or expensive.”
“Or both.”
I clench my fists. “They want her gone.”
“Looks that way.”
“You jam the ping?”
“For now,” he says. “But nothing’s permanent. They’ll sniff it eventually.”
“What’s it gonna cost me?”
Feron’s eyes glint. “My sister. Kirthos IX. Penal mine.”
“That’s federal.”
“Exactly. Get her out.”
“I’m not a miracle worker.”
“No. You’re worse. You’re a man with a conscience and a past full of bodies.”
I look away.
“You gonna tell the girl?” he asks after a moment.
“Not yet. She’s scared enough.”
“She should be.”
I rise. “I’ll think about it.”
“No,” he says, voice flat. “You’ll do it.”
I don’t answer. Just walk out, the shard burning a hole in my pocket and my pulse hammering like it wants out.
This thing’s bigger than her.
Which means it’s bigger than me.
The air in the yard feels different this morning—heavier, like the clouds pressing down from the outside have crawled in through the ventilation.
I clock it the moment I walk past the first wall scanner. There’s a chill behind my neck that doesn’t come from temperature. It comes from eyes.
From the weight of being noticed.
Crosser’s waiting by the tool lockers. He usually doesn’t wait. Usually just grabs his cutter and vanishes into the east bays before anyone can saddle him with small talk.
Today he leans against the rack with his arms folded and that fake neutral expression he wears when he’s sizing someone up.
“Late,” he mutters.
“Clock says I’m two early,” I say.
“You know what I mean.”
I meet his gaze for half a second before I look away—casual, like I’ve got better things to do than read the threat in his voice. I reach for my locker. My claws twitch when I open it. Muscle memory wants the blade first. Habit screamsstay calm.
