It hits harder than it should. Not the insult—Marj isn’t mine to defend—but the ease of it. Like she’s done this before. Not killed tyrants. But danced through danger with jokes instead of shields.
I tap the console again. The map zooms to the northern sector—Kaerva’s spine. Towers jut up like broken fingers, all silver and surveillance, stitched together with walls and weapon nests.
“That’s her stronghold. Used to be a trade hub. Now it’s a fortress with a marketing department.”
Roxy leans in, just enough that the glow from the screen warms the sharp lines of her face. “She run a podcast too? ‘Murder and Metrics’?”
“Only if the guests die on-air.”
She chuckles. “Edgy.”
“She’s got a system. Take out anyone with a legend. Anyone who gives people hope. Turns their fall into a spectacle.”
“Break the legend, break the movement,” Roxy echoes, nodding. “Classic.”
It sounds right. But something’s off. The way she says it—it’s too smooth. Like she read it on a screen, not lived it. Like she’s quoting a show that got cancelled mid-season.
“You really think this is classic?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Happens all the time.”
“Where?”
She hesitates. Just a breath too long. Then: “Places.”
I blink. “Places.”
“Distant ones.”
That lands wrong.
Not danger-wrong. But sideways. Tilted. Like a puzzle piece that fits only if you force it.
Still, she’s calm. Present. And here. That counts for more than a lot.
“Ever worked with a spotter?” I ask, casual.
“Always.”
“You move heavy or precise?”
She meets my eyes, unfazed. “Both.”
I glance at her hands. Slim, clean. No grip callouses. No burn scars or tech tattoos. Too pristine for someone who’s dragged lives out of crosshairs. She catches me looking and flexes—like she’s trying to convince me, or herself.
I shift, leaning back in my chair, but I don’t let the thought go.
She’s lying. Not badly. Not obviously. But enough.
Still, there’s no fear in it. No flinching. Just… adaptation. Like she’s adjusting to a role she didn’t ask for but refuses to fail.
She crosses one leg over the other, casual as a cat. “So what’s your angle, Vrok?”
“What do you mean?”
“This. You. Me. You don’t strike me as the team-up type.”
I shrug. “Marj doesn’t fall to solo runs. She’s survived four. All better killers than me.”
