I tell them I don’t know where Tur is.
Technically true.
I tell them rival syndicates already know about the node.
Extremely true.
That last one makes them go very still.
The bald one leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“You’re lying,” he says quietly.
“No,” I reply. “I’m informing you that you’re late to your own gold rush.”
He stares at me.
Then stands up without a word and leaves the room.
That’s the first fracture.
The next one comes three hours later when they bring in a woman instead of a man.
She’s tall, late thirties, immaculate hair, jacket cut just slightly wrong at the shoulders like she borrowed it from someone with broader bones.
She sits across from me and studies my face like she’s cataloging damage for insurance purposes.
“You’re enjoying this,” she says flatly.
“No,” I reply. “I’m winning.”
Her mouth tightens.
“You think you’re clever.”
“I think you’re underestimating how expensive it is to kill me now.”
Her eyes flick.
Just once.
To the corner of the room.
Camera?
Mic?
Backup team behind the wall?
Something’s not aligned.
“Why are you doing this,” she asks.
I shrug carefully around my ribs.
“Because your people burned down my restaurant and then kidnapped me.”
“That’s not why,” she says.
