I tap the first file.
His own voice fills the room—clean, clear, recorded. It’s his broadcast doctrine, the one he delivered like he was preaching:
“Perpetual war prevents stagnation… economic collapse… necessary…”
Morazin’s expression doesn’t change, but I watch his throat tighten as his words echo back at him. There’s something primal about hearing yourself tell the world what you really are.
I let it play for ten seconds. Then I cut it off.
Silence snaps back.
“You hear that?” I ask him. “That’s you. Not the version you sell to committees. The version you buried under paperwork.”
Morazin’s eyes narrow. “You think playing audio will scare me.”
“No,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “I think it will remind you what’s already in motion. And I think it will remind you you’re not the one holding the leash.”
His brow lifts. “Oh?”
I tap again—another projection blooms. A cascade of Nine-coded transaction routes, his funding chain, the shell intermediaries. Then I overlay it with something new: the Nine’s extraction schedule we pulled.
EXTRACTION WINDOW: WITHIN 72 HOURS
I let that sit there, hovering like a guillotine.
Morazin’s smirk falters. Just a hairline crack.
“Your friends,” I say softly. “They planned to ‘extract’ you.”
Morazin’s jaw flexes. “They planned contingencies.”
“Don’t insult me,” I snap, and the anger flares sharper than I expect. “I’ve lived through enough institutions to recognize a polite murder plan when I see one.”
Lonari shifts behind me. A faint scrape of boot on concrete. He’s listening. Watching.
Morazin exhales slowly through his nose, trying to regain control. “You think this means something? That the Nine will kill me?”
“It means you’re disposable,” I say. “Which is hilarious, because you’ve been acting like you’re untouchable.”
Morazin’s eyes harden. His voice goes colder. “I’m not disposable.”
I tilt my head. “Then prove it. Give me High Lantern.”
The words land and the room tightens.
Morazin’s gaze flicks up, sharp. “Ah.”
There it is—the moment his mask shifts. Not fear. Not anger.
Recognition.
He knows what that name means.
“You’ve been digging,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m like a roach in an air vent. Annoying and hard to kill.”
Morazin’s mouth twitches. “High Lantern isn’t yours to touch.”
