I try again. Still nothing.
I keep my expression blank, even though nobody’s watching—habit from childhood, from the orphanage, from the IHC: never show frustration, because frustration is a handle people grab to steer you.
I flip the compad over with clumsy bound hands and feel for the heat seam along the casing.
Warm.
Barely. But warm.
It’s drawing power.
Sandboxed, not destroyed.
They want me to think I’m helpless. They want me to waste time pounding on a dead screen while they stage whatever theater they’ve planned.
I breathe out slowly through my nose. “Cute.”
A soft chime sounds overhead.
The rig’s forward panel flickers, and a holo blooms in the air in front of me, clean and bright—too clean for a cargo hold. Whoever’s projecting it has priority access. Secured channel.
The holo resolves into a face.
Morazin.
Very alive.
He’s seated somewhere comfortable. Warm lighting. A desk behind him. A cup of something steaming. He looks like a man about to deliver a quarterly earnings report, not the architect of a massacre. His hair is neat, his uniform crisp, his posture relaxed. He even has the audacity to look rested.
His eyes land on me with calm contempt, like I’m a mildly interesting inconvenience.
“Jordan James,” he says pleasantly. “You look… rumpled.”
I stare at him, letting my silence sharpen. “Morazin.”
He smiles slightly. “Still with the tone. Good. I was worried the boarding crew might have shaken the personality out of you.”
“Where am I?” I ask, voice hoarse from dry air.
Morazin’s smile widens like he’s amused I’m still trying to negotiate. “On a ship. In transit. In custody. Pick whichever phrasing helps you cope.”
My wrists throb. I ignore it. “Your credentials were falsified.”
“Obviously,” he says, sipping from his cup. “Do you think I’d use something traceable when I’m making an example?”
I stare at him. “So the corridor meeting was bait.”
Morazin tilts his head. “Bait is such an emotional word. I prefersignal management.You needed to feel like you’d reached safety. You needed to demonstrate your value to your little network of do-gooders.”
My stomach twists. “Clint?—”
Morazin’s eyes brighten just a fraction. “Ah. Clint Rogers. Still saving strays. Still pretending he’s not a stray himself.”
My jaw tightens. “What did you do to him?”
Morazin shrugs. “I didn’t do anything to him. Yet. His channel went quiet because the corridor is mine when I need it to be. If he’s smart, he’s currently sitting very still, telling himself he can’t help you.”
I force my voice steady. “You’re enjoying this.”
