Another packet resolves.
“…fire assets mobilizing…”
“…timing window thirty minutes…”
“…public-facing venue…”
Public.
My teeth grind.
“Goddamn it.”
I magnify the location tags.
The coordinates snap into place on the city map.
Fierson District.
Restaurant row.
I feel a faint, distant echo of heat in my chest that makes no sense at all.
I straighten, shoulders rolling back, and run a deeper trace through the syndicate chatter, hunting for names.
The terminal scrolls.
Then highlights one in amber.
Fierson Grill.
My breath stalls.
I don’t know that restaurant.
I don’t know the owner.
I don’t know why the name lands like a pressure change in my lungs.
It shouldn’t mean anything to me.
It doesn’t mean anything to me.
I force myself to sit back, jaw tight enough that it aches.
“This is not your fight,” I say out loud, because hearing it in my own voice has always helped anchor me.
The room answers with silence and the soft whisper of cooling vents.
I bring up Alliance surveillance probability overlays, just to torture myself properly.
If I move.
If I interfere.
If I kill Glimner enforcers in a public district.
My heat signature will spike.
