“You didn’t pull me anywhere. I walked in.”
Her lips tighten. “You could’ve walked out.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “But then I wouldn’t have found something worth fighting for.”
She looks away, and for a second I think she’s going to cry. But she doesn’t. Kelsea doesn’t break like that. She just hardens, like cooling metal.
“I’m not letting them take you,” I say. “I made my choice. Long before this.”
She nods, just once. Then reaches out and presses her fingers to my wrist. The contact is small, but it grounds me more than I’d admit out loud.
The warehouse groans, echoing the weight in my ribs. Outside, the wind’s picked up. Sand skitters across the windows like it’s trying to get in. Or maybe trying to warn us.
We don’t move. Not yet. But we both know—when we do, there’s no coming back.
And I’m fine with that.
Long as we go forward together. There’s no more running. No more fallback plans. No more quiet.
We’re out of time.
I feel it like a pressure in my chest—tight, hot, insistent. The kind that makes your breath go shallow even when you’re still. Kelsea’s asleep, curled around one of the blades like it’s a lifeline. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, stubborn rhythm. I let her rest. Gods know she needs it. But I can’t sit still any longer.
The comm rig’s cobbled together from old black-market guts—one node scavenged from a busted courier drone, the signal booster from a defunct alarm tower. The casing hums when I power it up, like it’s remembering how to breathe. I run a pulse test, watch the static flicker green, then spool the first feed line.
I know exactly where to send it.
The public node spine lights up on my screen, skeletal and exposed. I don't waste time re-uploading the data—that's already out there, burning through the nodes Ceera hit yesterday. I just open a direct broadcast channel. Reroute it through the public spine so they can't scrub it fast enough.
I click record.
“This is Roja Renn,” I begin, my voice lower than I expected. Rough with dust and resolve. “Former Coalition security enforcer. ID 14273-XK.”
I hear a rustle behind me. Kelsea shifts.
“The files released yesterday... the records of bribery, weapon smuggling, and the clerical corruption in Jark District... they aren't fabrications. They are valid. And they came from me.”
I pause. My tongue feels like it’s coated in ash.
“Cleric Vasso sanctioned these acts. And now, rather than face a tribunal, Coalition Command has issued a kill order for the witnesses. They don't want justice. They want silence.”
I lean into the cam, letting the light catch the scars on my face.
“I am fully aware this transmission marks me for execution. But the data stands. Check the timestamps. Check the signatures. This is the cost of silence. And I won’t pay it anymore.”
I cut the feed and hit SEND.
The comm rig whines, spitting sparks. The video is gone—loose in the bloodstream of the district’s networks, attaching itself to the data packet we already released.
“What did you do?” she asks, voice raw.
I don’t turn right away. I can’t.
“Roja—what did you just do?”
I finally look at her. She’s sitting up, hair mussed, face pale under the flickering lantern light. There’s a half-folded blanket around her shoulders, her fingers white-knuckled around it.
“I claimed it,” I say. “I gave the truth a face.”
