I step closer to Fyr, voice low. “This isn’t about morality.”
“Oh?” he bites out.
“This is about autonomy,” I say. “Survival without autonomy is just slavery with better lighting.”
Fyr flinches slightly, like the word lands somewhere it shouldn’t.
I keep going, because once I start, I can’t stop.
“The Nine doesn’t want us dead,” I say. “They want us obedient. They want tribute. They want influence. They want our syndicate as a pipeline for their operations. If we accept that, we live… but we live as property.”
Fyr’s jaw tightens. He looks away, then back. “And if we resist, we bleed.”
“Yes,” I say. “We bleed. We lose people. We lose comfort. But we keep the one thing that matters—our choice.”
Fyr’s eyes flicker with something like reluctant understanding. Or maybe it’s just exhaustion.
He spits to the side. “You’re going to get us all killed.”
“Maybe,” I say softly. “But at least we’ll die as ourselves.”
Fyr holds my gaze for a long beat, then shakes his head like he can’t believe me.
“You’ve changed,” he mutters.
I think of Jordan’s eyes in the tunnel feed. The way she builds redundancies like prayer. The way she refuses to run even when the whole galaxy labels her a threat actor.
I think of Venn’s scream.
I swallow hard.
“I’ve remembered,” I say finally. “That’s all.”
Fyr doesn’t answer. He turns and limps toward the exit, pride holding him up like a crutch.
Before he leaves, he says quietly, almost grudging, “Don’t waste their deaths.”
I nod once. “I won’t.”
When the vault door seals behind him, the silence is thick.
I stand in front of Morazin’s restraint frame and stare at him.
He’s breathing fast. Sweat beads on his forehead. His eyes dart.
“You’re losing,” he whispers, voice brittle. “The Nine will?—”
I cut him off. “You don’t get to talk about them like they’re gods.”
Morazin swallows. “They are inevitable.”
I step closer, my shadow swallowing him.
“No,” I say, and my voice is quiet enough that it feels like a vow instead of a threat. “They’re a network. A parasite. A machine made of cowards who think distance makes them untouchable.”
I inhale, and the air tastes like cold metal and grief.
Venn. Dren. Names that will never laugh again.
