Lonari’s brow ridges lift. “Jordan?—”
“I’m not doing damsel treatment,” I snap. “I’m not getting tucked into a safe room while men with guns decide my life.”
Lonari’s mouth tightens. “You almost died.”
“I keep almost dying,” I shoot back. “It doesn’t mean I stop moving.”
Renn clears his throat awkwardly, clearly regretting being present.
Lonari’s voice drops, dangerous. “Then what do you want.”
I force myself to breathe. “Partnership.”
Lonari stills. “Define.”
I step closer, meeting his eyes so he can’t pretend this is just logistics.
“I take point on tech and evidence,” I say. “I build the comm hubs, track ghost pings, dig the keys, feed the truth into the world where it can’t be scrubbed.”
Lonari’s gaze stays on mine, unblinking.
“And you,” I continue, “take point on muscle and leverage. You handle crews, captains, arrests, negotiations, making sure nobody bags me and calls it ‘protection.’”
Renn mutters under his breath, “That’s… actually clean.”
Lonari ignores him. His eyes narrow, assessing.
“And what,” he asks slowly, “do you do if someone tries to grab you again.”
I don’t flinch. “I fight.”
Lonari bares his teeth. “With what. Your mouth?”
“With whatever’s in reach,” I reply, voice flat. “And with redundancy. And with the fact that if I go missing, the dead-man protocols don’t stop at civilian journalists anymore.”
Lonari’s jaw tightens. “You set new dead-man triggers.”
I nod once. “I learned.”
A beat.
Then Lonari exhales, controlled, like he’s making a decision he hates and respects at the same time.
“Fine,” he says. “Partnership.”
My chest tightens. Relief and fear in equal measure, because partnership means trust, and trust is dangerous.
Lonari points a claw at me. “But you take one guard.”
I roll my eyes. “One guard is not a partnership, it’s a babysitter.”
“One guard,” he repeats, voice steel.
I glare. “Can the guard be quiet.”
Renn coughs. “I can assign?—”
Lonari cuts him off. “I’ll pick.”
