Lonari’s eyes darken. “I know.”
He doesn’t flinch from it. He doesn’t try to shine it up.
He just holds my gaze and says, “We honor them by finishing what we started.”
I nod, shaking. “Okay.”
Lonari kisses me again—slower, deeper—and then he shifts, guiding me back onto the bed with careful pressure, as if he’s asking with every movement.
My hands grip his shoulders. My breath stutters. The world narrows to warmth and weight and the simple reality of touch.
We choose it deliberately.
Not to forget.
To remember that we’re still human enough—stillusenough—to want connection after violence.
The details blur into heat and murmured words, into the soft creak of the mattress and the hush of the room swallowing our names.
I cling to him like a lifeline.
And he holds me like I’m not disposable.
Like I matter.
When the world finally settles again, my skin is warm, my throat raw, and my mind—miraculously—quiet for the first time since the breach.
Lonari lies beside me, one arm heavy across my waist, breath slow against my hair.
I stare at the ceiling for a minute, listening to the muffled pulse of the casino above.
Then I speak into the quiet.
“I’m done,” I say.
Lonari’s voice is a low hum against my shoulder. “With what?”
“With chasing permission,” I say, and the words feel like a door locking. “With hoping the IHC will do the right thing if I make a good enough argument. With thinking a hearing is something they’ll grant me if I ask nicely.”
Lonari’s hand tightens slightly on my waist. “Good.”
I turn my head, look at him. “I’m going to build the case that forces their hand.”
His eyes are half-lidded, tired, but sharp. “That’s the Jordan I know.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, well. She’s a menace.”
Lonari’s mouth curves. “That too.”
I slip out from under his arm carefully, reach for my compad on the nightstand. My body protests—sore in a way that feels grounding, real—but my mind is clear.
I open Clint’s channel.
My fingers hover for a heartbeat, then I attach the partial biometric imprint file—the trace tied to High Lantern’s authorization layer.
I type with blunt honesty:
CLINT — I’M SENDING YOU THE BIOMETRIC TRACE. FIND WHO “HIGH LANTERN” IS. NO POLITICS. NO SPIN. JUST THE NAME.
