I look down at the zoning anomalies.
The syndicate overlays.
The buried protections.
“I’m working on that,” I say quietly.
The call ends.
I sit there for a long moment, my jaw clenched so hard it hurts.
Ishaan watches me carefully.
“You’re not panicking,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “I’m pattern-matching.”
I grab a stylus and start sketching on my tablet.
Addresses.
Permit numbers.
Corporate shells.
Syndicate affiliates.
Municipal departments.
Transit nodes.
I draw lines between them.
Pressure points.
Leverage chains.
Political chokeholds.
I’m not reacting anymore.
I’m planning.
“Okay,” I mutter. “If someone wants that ground kept in civilian hands, then they are protecting something they can’t legally own.”
Ishaan leans closer.
“And if the Nine want to evict it.”
“Then they’re trying to access whatever’s under it,” I finish.
We hear footsteps in the hallway outside the records room.
I don’t flinch.
Tur appears in the doorway, dressed in dark clothes that eat the light, his eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on me.
He doesn’t say anything.
