Free.
The transrail arrives in a gust of wind and light, but I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at his face.
And the ground tilts beneath me.
CHAPTER 4
JAV
Redscale Bar “The Shed” – Haven-7 Periphery
The place smells like old plasma oil, burnt citrus, and a hint of sweat soaked into synthetic leather—exactly how I left it.
It’s all cosmetic, though. The heart of this place? That pulsing, territorial hum in the walls? That was mine long before they slapped my family’s crest on the door. I step inside like I never left, my boots thudding against the black tile. Heads swivel. Voices stutter.
And then—silence.
It’s not fear. Not quite. More like recalibration. They’re clocking me. Sizing up how much of the old Jav is still in this red-scaled body, and how much of me got sanded down in a cell.
I give them a grin.
That’s all it takes.
Murmurs ripple through the room, and a couple of lieutenants I recognize—Ral, Dresk, the twins—stand and nod, shoulders tight.
They remember how I kept my claws clean but my word bloody. I never had to raise a fist. That’s what lieutenants are for.
And that’s when I hear a wet crunch behind the bar.
I turn.
Garkin’s sitting on a reinforced stool with a fusion block sandwich halfway to his mouth. He freezes, mid-bite, eyes wide like a creature caught gnawing on sacred meat.
“You’re late,” he grumbles, dropping the sandwich onto a napkin like it personally betrayed him.
“I’m not on the payroll anymore,” I say, sliding onto the stool next to him.
He gestures to the room with a crusty elbow. “You are now. They saw you walk in. Saw you grin. That’s a coronation ‘round here.”
I snort. “I didn’t come to reclaim territory.”
“You didn’t have to. You justexisted.”
A half-bot server scuttles by and drops a drink in front of me. I don’t touch it. Too early, and I need a clear head.
“You find her?” I ask, low.
Garkin sips from a tall glass with a little umbrella sticking out like a mockery. He always did like absurdity in his drinks.
“Yeah,” he says, finally. “Kairo Jones. Living under a paper-patched ID—Kay Jones—suburb section of Haven-7. District Eleven. She’s got a garden now.”
I blink. “Agarden?”
“Yeah,” Garkin smirks. “Like with plants. Dirt. Carrots, probably.”
My claws tap against the metal bar top. I imagine her in the sunlight, fingers covered in soil, green eyes narrowed at some rebellious weed. My chest tightens.
“And the kid?”
