The feed goes live five minutes later.
A little window blooms on my slate—grainy, vent-cam angle. Suite Twelve looks like every neutral suite: plush seating, polished table, soft lighting designed to flatter liars. The air filters whisper. A decanter sits on the table like a prop in a play.
Councilor Veyl Tarsen sits relaxed, one ankle resting on a knee. Jasker sits opposite him, posture stiff, eyes scanning theroom like he’s trying to decide which wall would make the best exit.
Good. Paranoia is a symptom of guilt.
Tarsen’s voice comes through the audio feed, smooth as oiled silk. “Captain. I appreciate you agreeing to meet privately.”
Jasker’s voice is rougher, impatient. “Skip the pleasantries. I’m not here for friends.”
“Of course,” Tarsen says. “You’re here for stability.”
Jasker scoffs. “I’m here for survival.”
Tarsen smiles like he’s been handed a gift. “Often the same thing.”
I stand in the corridor outside, back to the wall, listening. The lights hum overhead. My pulse is steady.
Jordan pings my comm. “I’m watching,” she says quietly. Her voice is filtered, coming from wherever she’s hiding. “I swear, if he mentions me like I’m merchandise?—”
“He will,” I say softly. “That’s the point.”
Inside the suite, Tarsen leans forward. “You’re aware the Kaijen syndicate is… under new management.”
Jasker’s mouth tightens. “Acting management.”
Tarsen’s smile doesn’t change. “Lonari Kaijen is a bold choice. Suspending tribute to the Nine is… brave.”
“Brave,” Jasker repeats, bitter. “Or suicidal.”
Tarsen steeples his fingers. “And you disagree with his approach.”
Jasker hesitates. That hesitation is everything. It’s the sound of a man deciding which devil pays better.
Then he says, “Lonari is reckless. He’s letting an IHC civilian steer him.”
Jordan’s breath crackles in my ear. “Oh, screw you.”
I keep my voice low. “Let it play.”
Tarsen nods slowly. “Jordan James.”
Jasker spits the name like it tastes sour. “She’s poison. She broadcasts, she stirs, she drags attention. The Nine doesn’t tolerate attention.”
“And yet,” Tarsen says gently, “attention is already here. The question is who it lands on.”
Jasker’s eyes sharpen. “What are you offering?”
Tarsen spreads his hands, palms up. “Protection. For you. And for your people. Gur can be… unforgiving to those who lose favor.”
Jasker leans in slightly. “Define protection.”
Tarsen’s voice drops a fraction. “Amnesty. Territorial recognition. Supply contracts that don’t vanish overnight. A seat at certain tables.”
Jasker’s throat bobs. “In exchange for what?”
Tarsen’s smile grows. “In exchange for restoring stability.”
