I freeze.
Because the style is wrong.
Morazin’s encryption is neat—corporate clean, predictable patterns, standardized padding.
This fragment is different. Military-grade. Sparse. Efficient. The kind of key structure used by people who don’t need to hide their authority because their authority is the lock.
My throat goes dry.
“Lonari,” I call, voice tight.
He appears in the doorway almost instantly, like he was waiting for the sound of my panic.
“What,” he demands.
I point at the screen. “This.”
He steps closer, eyes scanning the data like he’s trying to read a foreign language.
“Explain,” he says.
I swallow. “Morazin didn’t sign everything. He couldn’t have. This is a partial authorization key embedded in the operationheader—someone with military-grade clearance touched the false-flag infrastructure. Someone higher approved access keys.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “Higher than Morazin.”
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “Morazin was an operator. Not the architect.”
Renn steps in behind him quietly, like he sensed the gravity.
Lonari’s jaw tightens. “Who.”
“I don’t have a name,” I admit. “Not yet.”
Lonari’s gaze locks onto mine. “We get one.”
I nod, pain flaring as adrenaline spikes again. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches, thick with implications.
Because “higher” means institutional.
It means someone in Alliance. Or IHC. Or Coalition. Or all of them, braided together with Baragon money and Nine leverage.
It means this isn’t just a syndicate war.
It’s a system.
Lonari exhales slowly. “That patrol?—”
“Wasn’t just curious,” I finish. “They’re pressure. They’re containment.”
Lonari’s eyes go cold. “They’ll try again.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He studies me for a long beat, then says, “You’re getting protection.”
I straighten, pain and pride rising together. “No.”
