“I know,” I say. “That’s why we’re moving the asset.”
I key a private channel. “Fyr. Where are you?”
A pause. Then Fyr’s voice, rough and angry. “Where do you think? I’m not letting strangers carve up my house.”
Of course he’s here. Broken ribs and all, still stubborn enough to crawl into a firefight.
“Get to Morazin,” I say. “Now. We’re moving him.”
Fyr spits something that might be a curse. “We should kill him.”
I feel my teeth grind. “No.”
“He brought this to our door,” Fyr snaps. “He’s bait. He’s rot. Cut him out.”
“He’s testimony,” I bark back. “He’s our shield.”
Fyr’s laugh is harsh. “Your shield is a liar in cuffs?”
“My shield is a living witness,” I say, voice low with warning. “A dead Morazin is a problem that disappears into paperwork. Aliving Morazin is a problem that forces institutions to admit they bled.”
Fyr goes quiet for a heartbeat.
Then, bitterly, “You’re letting Jordan steer you.”
My claws flex. “I’m letting reality steer me.”
A burst of gunfire cracks close. Someone yells. A body slams into the wall and slides down.
I move.
I sprint down the corridor, boots pounding wet concrete, smoke burning my eyes. The safehouse feels smaller now—walls closing in, air thick with heat and metal.
As I round the corner, I see Fyr at the holding room door, one hand on the frame, the other gripping a pistol like it’s an extension of his anger. His posture is stiff with pain, but he’s upright. Always upright.
Morazin is still strapped to the chair inside, blood drying at his mouth, eyes wide now—not smug anymore. He looks like a man realizing he miscalculated the shape of his own death.
Fyr gestures at him with the gun. “Tell me again why this one breathes.”
“Because he talks,” I say.
Morazin’s eyes flick between us. “They’ll kill you,” he whispers, almost gleeful through fear. “They’ll?—”
“Shut your mouth,” Fyr snarls.
I step into the room and my nostrils flare.
The air smells different in here—faint brine, damp cold. There’s a service hatch in the floor behind Morazin, sealed with a heavy cover. I can smell water on the other side.
Submerged route.
Good.
I’d forgotten this safehouse had a drainage artery. An old smugglers’ trick: a flooded maintenance tunnel that connects to the industrial runoff network.
It’s disgusting.
It’s perfect.
