“We’re not fighting a syndicate,” I tell them. “We’re fighting a structure.”
Orin swallows. “Can we use these?”
“Yes,” I say. “And we will.”
Because leverage is the only language systems understand.
Back at the Nun, I find Jordan in the operations room, posture stiff, compad open, eyes sharp but tired.
She looks up when I enter, and for a second the tension in her shoulders eases—then returns like she hates that it eased at all.
“What?” she asks immediately. “You look like you found a corpse in a church.”
“Close,” I say. “We intercepted a Nine shipment.”
Jordan’s eyes narrow. “And?”
I toss the Alliance case onto the table.
Her fingers snap it open.
She stares at the modules like they’re snakes.
“Holy—” she breathes. “These are real.”
“Yep,” I say.
Jordan’s jaw tightens. “So Morazin wasn’t bluffing.”
“No,” I reply.
Jordan exhales shakily. “This is… this is big. This is?—”
“This is proof,” I say. “The kind that makes governments sweat.”
Jordan’s gaze flicks to me. “Do you realize what this means? If the Nine has Alliance comm access, they can spoof?—”
“Anything,” I finish. “Yes.”
She swallows hard, then rubs her eyes. “Great. Fantastic. Love that.”
Her compad buzzes.
Her face changes as she reads the incoming ping.
“Clint,” she says, voice tight.
She answers, and Clint’s holo appears—tense, breath quick, eyes darting like he’s in a hallway he doesn’t trust.
“Jordan,” he says. “We’ve got a problem.”
Jordan’s voice is calm but hard. “We always have a problem. Tell me the new one.”
Clint swallows. “Someone inside IHC intel is pressuring me to stop assisting you. They flagged my comm patterns. They’re—” He hesitates. “They’re making it clear I’m being watched.”
Jordan’s face goes pale, then furious. “They can’t?—”
“They can,” Clint says quietly. “And they will. If I keep this up, they’ll ruin me or disappear me.”
