The cuffs buzz faintly, syncing to the console. Pulse, body temp, breath pattern. The basics. No mind probes. They don’t work on grolgaths. Neural resilience or some krakka like that. All this gear’s for show.
The real deal is what’s happening behind the glass, in the dark-paneled observation room where a dozen Alliance commanders and political lapdogs are watching me with hawk-eyes, waiting to see if the boogeyman still growls.
They don’t want justice.
They want an excuse.
"During your tenure with the Kuraken family business, were you aware of any illicit trade in banned biotech?"
“Nope.”
Green light.
“Did you order the removal of Vashtal Isk when he was suspected of turning informant?”
“Nope.”
Yellow flicker. Uncertain, but not enough to trip the wire.
“Were you present the day Isk was found dead in his hoverpod on Driftspan?”
“Yes.”
Red pulse.
Truth.
“Did you kill him?”
I breathe out slow. Calm. Collected. Then I say:
“I think he committed suicide.”
The light flashes green.
And the room behind the glass? Silent.
They don’t get it. They never did.
Iskdidcommit suicide—he just didn’t know it when he opened his mouth to the Alliance. You don’t betray the family and expect to walk away whole. I didn’t have to order it. The rules were older than me. He chose the ending when he picked his side.
“That’s all I needed,” the tech says, voice clipped.
The cuffs disengage. My wrists ache from the pressure, but I don’t rub ’em. I stand slow, letting my tail uncoil. Stretch my shoulders. I know what this means.
This wasn’t a trial. It was a clearance.
They’re letting me out.
Not because they believe I’m clean—but because the political winds are shifting, and having meoutsidedestabilizes the Kuraken legacy more than keeping me caged. Let me shake the tree. Let me make them paranoid. I’m the pressure valve and the warning siren, both.
It’s war without bullets. Manipulation dressed in law.
The double doors hiss open.
Outside, standing with his arms crossed and his gut hanging proudly over a belt that’s seen better days, is Garkin.
“Look who got a gold star for behavior,” he mutters, tossing me my coat.
