Boarding shuttles detach from the Nun’s Tooth and plunge toward the ridge under signature dampeners. On my tactical overlay, our teams streak down like dark comets.
Renn’s voice is tight. “Boss, Morazin’s shooters are closing.”
On the live feed, one of Morazin’s men raises his rifle. Another steps into a clear line.
Jordan’s body is half behind scaffolding, half exposed.
Morazin shouts something off-mic—furious, clipped.
A rifle cracks.
The sound is sharp even through the broadcast compression.
Jordan jerks.
My breath stops.
She collapses sideways, hitting the platform hard enough that the rig rattles. Blood appears—dark and immediate—spreading along her side.
Not a clean kill shot.
A graze.
But serious.
My claws dig into the armrests of my chair. The bridge seems to tilt with my rage.
“MED TEAM READY,” I bark into comm. “NOW.”
Dr. Senn’s voice comes back, grim. “Trauma bay prepped. We need her breathing.”
“She’ll be breathing,” I growl, and I don’t know if I’m threatening the universe or begging it.
Morazin’s shooters move in to finish her.
Cameras keep rolling.
The audience feed is screaming.
Morazin’s voice rises, trying to reclaim narrative even as his infrastructure collapses.
“—this is order—this is stability?—”
He’s still talking.
He wants the kill on camera.
He wants fear.
He’s about to get something else.
Our first ground team hits the ridge perimeter—silent takedowns, EM disruption bursts. Morazin’s local guards drop without screams, stunned or choked out, because we don’t announce ourselves. We erase.
I don’t take the front entry.
Hero entries get you killed.
I take the side.
