Her mouth parts, but no sound comes.
“You... You said your name.”
“That was the point.”
“Roja, you just painted a target the size of a freighter on your back—on both of us.”
“I know.”
She drops the blanket, stands, starts pacing—boots silent on the dust-choked floor.
“Do you know how many people you just pissed off?” she hisses. “That message—it removes all doubt. It’s going to burn down half of Jark.”
“That’s the idea.”
She stops. Turns. Her eyes are sharp, haunted. “And what if they come before it spreads? What if they cut the feed?”
“They won’t,” I say. “It’s already on seven mirror channels. By morning, Vasso won't be fighting a rumor. He'll be fighting a confession.”
Outside, the wind kicks up, brushing sand across the high steel shutters like whispering teeth.
I move to the window, stare out. Past the skeletal outline of the warehouses, the city beyond is twitching. Lights in places that should be dark. Movement. Drones.
“Roja…” she says, softly now, closer.
“They’ll pull Vasso,” I tell her. “Maybe even a few others. They’ll panic, try to spin it, bury us deeper.”
“But?”
“But the people’ll see it. They’ll know.”
She exhales, long and low. “And what happens to us?”
I meet her eyes. “We survive. Or we go down together. Either way, we don't run anymore.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just steps closer until her shoulder brushes mine.
“I hope it was worth it,” she whispers.
“It already is.”
The storm outside’s finally blown out, but inside the warehouse, it’s still cold.
Kelsea’s asleep again, back curled tight, her breath barely audible over the distant hum of the grid. One of my knives rests beside her pillow. She placed it there herself, the handle angled toward her dominant hand. Just in case.
That detail sits with me.
I stay back against the wall, crouched in the shadows near the gear pile. The glow from the emergency lantern’s gone soft, faded to the orange tinge of a dying fire. My own eyes burn from the screen’s backlight—feeds still stuttering through, newsechoing what I already know. Vasso’s gone. Officially removed. The Council's scrambling to distance themselves, dragging him like a carcass in front of the mob and hoping it’ll be enough.
It won’t be.
Still, it’s something.
I exhale slow, watching the condensation cloud in front of my face. The cold bites my fingertips, sharp and grounding. My body’s tired. My mind’s exhausted. But I can’t sleep.
Not yet.
Not when she looks like that—fragile in a way she never lets herself be. Not when she’s finally still, the tension unwound from her frame, just for a second. I should look away, give her the dignity of privacy. But I don’t.
