He stands then, walks around the table slow. Stops just short of arm’s reach.
“You’ve been quiet too long, Roja. Makes people nervous.”
I meet his stare. Hold it. “Maybe they should be.”
Silence hums between us.
He steps back. Nods to the guards.
I walk out before they can escort me.
But I feel it.
The net’s tightening.
Someone in Jark’s pulling strings.
And I don’t have much time left before they figure out what I’m doing.
I need help.
I hate going back to him.
But hate doesn’t matter. Not when it’s her on the line.
The broker’s office is deeper than I remember. Third sub-level past the mechanical core, under a signage strip that’s never worked right. Light flickers like a dying pulse, and the air’s thick with the stink of old coolant and synth-oil.
He’s already grinning when I step in.
“Roja,” he says like he’s greeting an old lover, voice slick with smug. “Didn’t think you had the stones to come crawling back.”
“I’m not here to crawl,” I mutter, stepping over a half-disassembled terminal on the floor. “I’m here for the trade.”
He leans back, fingers laced behind his head. “Is that what we’re calling it now? A trade?”
“Just give me the name.”
“Not so fast,” he says, lazy. “I want to hear you say it.”
I stare at him. Long enough for the silence to press against the metal walls.
“I agree to the favor,” I say, voice low. Flat. Like steel dragged across cement.
“There it is,” he chuckles. “Knew it’d wear you down.”
He slides a holopad across the desk. It lights up with a flicker, casting a ghostly glow up under his eyes.
“She’s in Sector Seven. They call her Renna. Teaches data decryption to dockhands. Real self-righteous type. One of those ‘build-a-better-world’ idiots.”
I glance at the photo. Don’t recognize the face. Doesn’t matter. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t blink. “Tag her. Nothing flashy. No mess. Just let her know someone still sees her.”
“What happens to her after?”
He shrugs. “That’s not your side of the deal.”
“You expect me to sell someone out without knowing the cost?”
