Terranus V is a death-world people use for spectacle killings. It’s where you send someone when you want the galaxy to watch them die and feel righteous about it.
My claws flex unconsciously.
“Source?” I ask.
“Unconfirmed,” Renn says. “But it’s… consistent. Nine-adjacent crews moving. Broadcast prep.”
Broadcast.
Jordan.
I inhale slowly, forcing the rage to stay leashed. “Keep digging,” I say. “No rumors. I want confirmation.”
“Copy,” Renn replies, voice strained.
I turn back toward the street and start walking, because standing still makes me want to break things. The neon glare reflects off wet pavement. The air is warmer out here, thick with exhaust and fear.
A civilian—old, tired, carrying a bag of supplies—edges past me and whispers, “Thank you,” like I’m a hero.
I hate it.
Heroes die.
And I still have work.
The emergency beaconhits like a gunshot in my skull.
I’m halfway back to the Defrocked Nun when my pocket vibrates—one sharp, unmistakable pulse. Not a call. Not a message. A flare.
Jordan’s flare.
Short. Clean. The pattern we agreed on.
One ping.
It’s the kind of sound that collapses the universe into a single point.
My breath leaves me in a rough exhale. My vision narrows. For a heartbeat, all I see is her in my suite, hair messy, eyes fierce, wearing my shirt like a challenge and saying she’s not asking permission.
Captured.
My hand clamps around the beacon in my pocket like I can crush distance by force.
Renn’s voice comes through my comm again, and this time he doesn’t need to explain.
“Boss,” he says quietly. “You got it too.”
“Yeah,” I reply, voice rough. “I got it.”
I stop walking.
The street noise keeps moving around me—cars, shouts, distant gunfire—but my world goes still.
Then it snaps into motion.
“Stabilization halts,” I say into the comm, voice turning into steel. “All zones hold. Ceasefires remain in effect. Medical stations stay protected. Renn—war council. Now.”
Renn doesn’t argue. “Copy.”
