I drop to one knee beside him, grabbing his suit jacket. It’s wet.
Too wet.
Blood, dark under the emergency light.
Fyr’s teeth are clenched so hard I can hear them grind. His breath comes in ragged pulls.
“Don’t—” he rasps. “Don’t you dare—make this sentimental?—”
“Shut up,” I snap, dragging him behind the transport’s armored flank. The metal is warm under my palms, vibrating with engine rumble and gunfire impacts.
Renn crouches with me, eyes wild. “Boss, we gotta move?—”
“I’m moving,” I growl, and I slap a pressure patch onto Fyr’s wound, feeling the heat of his blood through my gloves. “You’re not dying here.”
Fyr laughs, wet and pained. “I’m not… dying. I’m just… pissed.”
“Good,” I snarl. “Stay pissed.”
I grab my weapon and rise.
The fight is still going. Loyalists are breaking now, some running, some dropping weapons, some screaming into comms begging for permission to retreat.
I don’t give it to them.
My men sweep, arresting instead of executing—zip cuffs, stun binds, controlled containment. It’s not mercy. It’s strategy. Dead men don’t talk. Captured men do.
I stalk forward and kick a weapon away from a kneeling loyalist.
“On your knees,” I bark.
He stares up at me, shaking. “Boss?—”
“Not your boss,” I say coldly. “Not anymore.”
We takethe ledger vault in fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes of controlled violence and screaming comms and doors being forced like bones being broken. Inside the vault, the air is cold and dry, smelling of servers and money.
I slam my palm onto the transaction authority console and initiate internal locks.
The system flashes warnings—punitive triggers, penalty clauses, Nine contract traps buried in the code like teeth.
Renn swallows. “Boss, if you detonate those locks, we lose reserves.”
“How much?” I ask.
Renn checks, face grim. “Half. Maybe more.”
I stare at the numbers, then at the contract clauses—designed to punish disobedience, to make autonomy expensive enough nobody tries.
I feel my jaw tighten.
“Do it,” I say.
Renn’s eyes widen. “Boss?—”
“Do it,” I repeat, voice like steel.