Morazin’s smile is small and smug. “I’m enjoying the clarity.”
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his desk, like we’re sharing a secret.
“Let me spare you the hero narrative,” he says softly. “There is no brave civilian exposing the truth and saving the galaxy. There is only a system correcting itself, and there are always… casualties.”
I taste bile. “Casualties. Like the tech crew you executed.”
Morazin’s expression doesn’t change. “Like the inefficiencies we removed.”
My fingers curl against the cuffs. “You murdered people.”
He lifts a hand gently, as if calming a child. “No, Jordan. I recalibrated an economic imbalance.”
The words hit with such obscene casualness my vision flashes hot for a second.
“Aneconomic correction,” I repeat, voice low.
Morazin nods. “War cycles keep markets moving. They keep fleets funded. They keep resources flowing. Peace is stagnation. Stagnation is collapse.” He spreads his hands slightly, almostapologetic. “You IHC types love to chant about stability while strangling the very mechanisms that maintain it.”
My laugh comes out sharp and ugly. “So you’re a philanthropist now. A savior.”
Morazin’s eyes cool. “I’m a realist.”
“You’re a predator,” I spit.
He smiles. “Predators are honest about hunger. That’s why they win.”
The ship hum deepens for a moment, like we bank in transit. My restraints tug slightly with the shift in inertia.
Morazin watches me watch the environment and his smile grows, subtle and pleased, like he enjoys that I’m trying to orient.
“You’re thinking,” he says. “Good. Thinking makes this more interesting.”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “If you’re such a genius, why was Yatori so sloppy?”
Morazin’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Sloppy.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning into it. “Field-drop theatrics. Alliance-marked cruiser with overwritten logs in real time like you’re daring someone to notice. Armor HUD glitches. The comm-jam signature wasn’t even that elegant—selective suppression with masking, sure, but it still left jitter fingerprints.” I smile, sweet and vicious. “Amateur hour.”
For the first time, something cracks in his expression—irritation, quick and bright.
“You think you could do better?” he asks.
I shrug as much as restraints allow. “I know I could.”
Morazin’s mouth tightens. “You’re very confident for someone in cuffs.”
“I’m confident because you’re talking to me,” I say smoothly. “If you were truly competent, I’d be dead already.”
That lands.
He doesn’t like it. I can see it in the micro-tension around his eyes, the way his posture stiffens slightly. He’s the kind of man who believes intelligence is his birthright.
So I keep pressing on the bruise.
“Honestly,” I add, voice casual, “if Baragon’s funding you, they should ask for a refund.”
Morazin’s gaze snaps sharper. “Careful.”
