The air pressure shifts.
Tur’s body changes around me, muscles tightening, stance widening, bone spurs angling outward as he lifts his head and turns toward the cell door.
Nine leadership floods the holding level like a badly coordinated coup.
Six of them.
Then eight.
Then more stacking up behind them, weapons raised, faces pale, eyes bright with adrenaline and greed and terror.
Cameras float in on micro-drones, red recording lights blinking as internal syndicate feeds go live.
The bald one is there.
The woman with the wrong jacket.
Two men I don’t recognize in tailored coats who look like they’ve never stood this close to actual violence before.
“Step away from the asset,” the bald one barks, trying and failing to sound authoritative instead of desperate.
Tur shifts.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He moves in front of me.
Not touching me now.
Just placing his body between mine and the guns.
A living wall of black armor and bone and incandescent rage under iron control.
“Put the weapons down,” the woman snaps. “This doesn’t have to escalate.”
Tur laughs once.
Soft.
Almost polite.
“You passed escalation about twelve corpses ago,” he says evenly.
The bald one’s eyes flick to the spurs.
To the blood.
To the ruined corridor behind him.
“We can negotiate,” he says quickly. “We can?—”
“No,” Tur cuts in.
The word lands like a hammer blow.
He turns his head just enough that I can see his profile.
