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Clint’s eyes soften. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“I know,” I say, and mean it. Then, quieter: “Thank you.”

He nods once. “Just—be careful. And don’t trust anyone offering you protection all of a sudden. That’s not how these people work.”

I almost laugh again.

“Clint,” I say, “I don’t trust anyone offering protectionever.”

He holds my gaze for a beat. “Stay in touch.”

The call ends.

The room feels too quiet without his voice.

I stare at my evidence vault schematic, and my hands start moving again before my brain fully catches up—typing, coding, embedding release triggers.

I’m building my own insurance policy against being erased.

Because I can’t afford to be noble.

I can only afford to be effective.

When Lonari comes in, the air in the room changes.

It always does.

It’s not just his size—though that’s part of it, the way the doorframe seems to negotiate with his shoulders. It’s the way he moves like he owns his body completely, like pain is something he files and stores rather than something that disrupts him.

Tonight he smells like smoke and steel. And underneath—something darker. Grief, maybe. Anger held tight enough to cut.

His eyes flick to the holo projection above my table.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“My paranoia,” I say. “Want to compliment it? It’s been working out.”

He huffs once, almost amused, then crosses the room and looks up at the network map with me. Close enough that I can feel his heat, the faint rough texture of his scales when his arm brushes mine.

I don’t move away.

Not because I’m fearless. Because I’m done running from proximity like it’s poison.

“Morazin’s chain,” I say. “And something worse.”

His gaze sharpens. “Show me.”

I zoom in on the relay route, isolate the Alliance node cluster.

Lonari’s jaw tightens as he reads.

“Alliance infrastructure,” he says slowly.

“Yep,” I say. “Morazin shouldn’t have access. Which means either someone handed him the keys or someone left the door wide open.”

Lonari’s eyes flick up to mine. “And what are you thinking?”

I swallow, throat dry. “I’m thinking his arrest won’t hold.”