Garkin sits beside me, arms crossed, eyes flicking between us. He looks like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s going to have to pull a gun or a miracle.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “We got Verin back alive. That was the objective.”
“The objective,” Kesh growls, “was to remind the Nine that Redscale blood don’t bleed easy.”
“And what? You want a war?” I snap. “We’re barely standing after the last one. You want me to start another because your ego misses the sound of blasters?”
Silence.
The woman, Rinna, speaks next. Her tone’s cooler. Controlled. “They’re watching you, Kuraken. Every move. They see the school. The woman. The… boy.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the table. “Leave them out of it.”
“They won’t,” she says simply. “The Nine don’t forgive sentiment. They smell weakness faster than blood.”
I breathe in through my nose, slow. The spice in the air burns my throat.
“I’m not weak,” I say.
Garkin glances at me. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel the warning in the set of his shoulders.
Kesh smirks. “You sure? Because it looks like you’re trying to live two lives at once. And that never ends clean.”
“Maybe I’m trying to build something that doesn’t end in a body count.”
“Then you better make peace with losing everything thatdoes.”
The words hang there, thick and heavy. Someone shifts. The chair squeaks. Outside, a delivery skiff rattles past, its engines whining.
Finally, Garkin clears his throat. “That’s enough philosophy for one night,” he says. “We got shipments to reroute and eyes to keep off our backs.”
Kesh rises. “You can’t keep this up, Kuraken. Sooner or later, you’ll have to pick a side.”
He leaves. The others follow.
Only Garkin stays.
He waits until the door seals behind them, then says quietly, “They’re not wrong.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious, Jav. You’re walking a fence between two storms. One’s the Nine. The other’s her. You think you can balance both, but you can’t. You’ll fall. And when you do, you won’t land clean.”
I rub a hand over my face. The skin along my jaw feels rough, gritty. I haven’t slept more than three hours a night in weeks.
“Maybe,” I say. “But if I fall, at least I’ll know which side I was facing when it happened.”
He shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like a prayer or a curse. “You used to be smart.”
“I used to be scared,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
We part ways in the alley, the city’s neon bleeding red and blue over the puddles at our feet. The rain smells like rust and ozone. I stand there for a while, just breathing, until the ache in my ribs flares and reminds me I’m not invincible.
Then I head to the school.
The morning rushhas already begun by the time I arrive. The hallways hum with chatter, small shoes slapping against tile, laughter bouncing off every surface. The air smells like crayons, sanitizer, and faintly of blueberry syrup from the cafeteria.
It should feel comforting.
