“Fine,” I mutter. “But if they try to separate us, I’m going feral.”
Renn’s mouth twitches. “That’s… already happening.”
We move.
The lobby has shifted again.
The merchants have been pushed back into organized clusters, guarded by Kaijen enforcers with calm eyes and visible weapons. The fountain glitters under casino lights, throwing water droplets into the air like tiny diamonds that don’t deserve to exist in a place this tense.
At the front entrance, the Coalition patrol stands in a clean line, armor polished, helmets tucked under arms like they’re trying to look human. Their faces are neutral, but their eyes are sharp—trained.
Their leader steps forward, a woman with a scar along her cheekbone and a Coalition crest pinned to her collar. She looks at Lonari, then at me.
“Jordan James,” she says.
I keep my face blank. “That’s me.”
“We’re here to ask questions regarding the broadcast and your involvement in destabilizing market confidence,” she says smoothly.
“Market confidence,” I echo, deadpan. “Wow. Glad we’re prioritizing the important stuff.”
Her jaw tightens. “You will come with us.”
Lonari steps forward, voice like stone. “No.”
The patrol leader’s gaze snaps to him. “This is Coalition jurisdiction.”
Lonari’s teeth flash. “This is Kaijen territory.”
The leader lifts her chin. “We have legal authority?—”
“Then present it,” I cut in, because I’m not letting this become a testosterone contest while I get quietly bagged.
The leader’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“I said present your legal basis,” I repeat, voice steady. “Warrant. Writ. Treaty clause. Anything. Because ‘we’re here for questioning’ isn’t authority, it’s intimidation.”
A ripple of murmurs moves through the merchants behind me.
The patrol leader’s expression cools. “Your broadcast caused?—”
“My broadcast revealed a false-flag massacre and financial routing tied to Baragon shells and Nine channels,” I interrupt. “If your priority is my tone instead of Morazin’s crimes, that’s… telling.”
One of the patrol officers shifts, hand twitching near their weapon.
Lonari’s body goes subtly tense beside me. I can feel the heat of him, the coiled threat.
The patrol leader exhales slowly. “We can do this politely or we can do this forcibly.”
I smile without humor. “You can try.”
Her eyes harden. “Jordan James, you are requested?—”
“No,” I say sharply. “I’m not a requested item. I’m a witness. And I’m injured. And you’re not separating me from the person who kept me alive until you show a legal basis.”
Lonari’s voice rumbles, low. “You heard her.”
The patrol leader’s gaze flicks between us, calculating. The lobby is full of cameras. Full of civilians. Full of merchants who now know what it looks like when institutions show up to “question” the inconvenient.
