Neither am I.
I flick the slate, pull up his security footage, and immediately know it’s wrong.
Not the face. The face is forgettable—too forgettable. Slim, tidy hair, a grin that doesn’t reach the eyes. But the walk… the walk tells truth. He steps like someone used to armored boots, weight distributed for speed. Coalition officials don’t walk like soldiers unless they used to be soldiers. Or they’re pretending to be officials.
“Tail him,” I say.
Rook nods once. “Already in motion.”
Good.
I head for the maintenance lifts that dump out near the neutral suites—private rooms the Nun rents to outsiders who want to pretend they’re not doing business with criminals. The irony is thick enough to choke on.
As we move, my tongue keeps catching a phantom taste—smoke and grief. Dren’s warehouse. The Nine’s scorch mark on concrete. I can see it every time I blink.
I don’t let it rule me.
Anger is a tool. Not a driver.
We reach the service access and slip into the outer corridor of the neutral wing. The air changes here—less casino perfume, more sterile climate control. The walls are smoother. The lights dimmer. People think dim lights make their sins harder to see.
They’re wrong.
Rook murmurs, “Target entered Suite Twelve. He’s not alone.”
My scales lift slightly. “Who?”
Rook taps his earpiece, listening. “We’ve got eyes on the second. Kaijen. Captain Jasker.”
For a moment, the world narrows.
Jasker.
One of the men who swore loyalty in my council chamber with poison on his tongue and calculation behind his eyes. A captain who used to oversee tribute transfers—who knew the routes, the names, the timing. Who knew how to keep the Nine fed without anyone noticing the bite marks.
My jaw tightens.
“Of course it’s him,” I murmur.
Sable’s voice is quiet. “You want him taken now?”
I inhale. The corridor smells like antiseptic and fresh paint. It makes me want to break something.
“No,” I say.
Rook glances at me. “He’s in there with a Coalition liaison offering Jordan ‘protection.’ That’s not a social call.”
“I know,” I say.
I step closer to the suite door but stop short—just outside the security sensor’s range. I can feel the soft hum of its scan field against my scales like invisible fingertips.
“We don’t pounce,” I say. “We set a counter-trap.”
Sable tilts her head. “You’re letting it proceed.”
“I’m letting them think they have control,” I say. “People talk more when they think the world is theirs.”
Rook’s mouth curls slightly. “And we’re listening.”
