I don’t regret it.
Even knowing the odds, even sitting in this cell, even facing possible execution, I don’t regret defecting.
The Syndicate was becoming something I couldn’t reconcile with what I believed. Killing hybrids. Hunting families. Destroying anyone who didn’t fit the Ivory League’s vision of purity.
I could have stayed. Could have kept following orders. Could have buried doubt beneath discipline and loyalty.
Instead, I’m here. And if they execute me tomorrow, at least I stopped being complicit.
The door opens. I sit up. Guards would have announced themselves. This is someone with the authority to enter unescorted.
Viktor Parlance steps inside. Alone. The door closes behind him, but doesn’t lock. Power move; he’s not afraid of me even though we’re alone in a cell.
He should be. Suppression field or not, I have centuries of combat experience. I could kill him before the guards responded.
But that would accomplish nothing except confirming I’m too dangerous to live.
So I stay seated. Hands visible. Posture non-threatening.
He studies me for a moment. I do the same. I’ve never encountered a shifter like him. Teak skin, silver hair pulled back in a knot. He’s blind in one eye, the afflicted one milky, but that doesn’t diminish the cold intelligence there. This is a man who’s made hard decisions and lived with them. A tactician. A leader who’s guided the Aurora Collective into a direction that few of us expected when the organization formed barely two decades ago. A place where all are welcome, as long as they understand the rules. Hard, but fair.
I respect that, even if it means he might order my execution.
“You promised critical intelligence,” he says. Straight to business. “What do you have?”
Direct. Efficient. The reason he’s here.
“Syndicate command structure first,” I say. “Verification of what Aurora already suspects.”
He pulls a small tablet from his jacket. “Names.”
I list them. Current Ivory League membership. Territories. Chain of command. Information Aurora probably has, but needs verified from a primary source.
He listens. Makes notes. Asks clarifying questions. Professional interrogation—not hostile, not friendly. Just efficient extraction.
We go through operational details next. Recent activities. Facility locations. Supply chains. Personnel movements. I answer factually. No embellishment. No withholding except the piece I’m saving.
This is the baseline. The foundation of trust I need to build.
“And the critical intelligence?” Viktor asks. “The reason you requested sanctuary?”
Here it is. The leverage I came with.
“Roland Vex,” I say. Watch his face for recognition. See it immediately—subtle tightening around his eyes. “He’s conducting hybrid shifter experiments. Active facility. Not in Syndicate territory. Yours.”
Viktor goes very still. The kind of stillness that precedes violence or critical decisions.
“Explain.”
“Vex has a research facility within two hundred miles of this headquarters. He’s using it to experiment on hybrid shifters. Testing forced transformations, genetic manipulation, combat enhancement.”
“How do you know this?”
“I commanded security oversight for Syndicate research divisions. Vex’s projects crossed my desk regularly. This particular facility was established eighteen months ago.”
“Location.”
“That’s my guarantee,” I say. “Along with security details, personnel rosters, supply manifests. Everything you need to verify and shut it down. But only after sanctuary is confirmed.”
