Jordan’s fingers pause. “What?”
Clint’s voice drops. “Whoever’s pressuring me… they referenced ‘High Lantern.’ Not by name. But by title. Like it’s… common knowledge in certain circles.”
Jordan’s face hardens. “So it’s real.”
Clint nods, grim. “It’s real.”
The call ends.
The room goes quiet except for the hum of servers.
Jordan stares at her screen like she wants to punch it. “They’re going to treat him like they treated me.”
“Which is why he’s coming here,” I say.
Jordan’s voice is tight. “We’re stacking targets on ourselves.”
“Yes,” I say. “Because the alternative is letting them pick us off one by one.”
Jordan’s jaw works. She looks up. “You’re really doing this.”
“I told you,” I say quietly. “Hard path.”
Jordan swallows, then nods once like she’s accepting a truth she hates.
Then a sound breaks through the calm—faint, low, mocking.
A laugh.
It comes from the comm panel tied to the vault.
Morazin.
Jordan’s head snaps toward it, eyes blazing.
I tap the channel open.
Morazin’s voice slides into the room like oil. “Ohhh, this is adorable. Little alliances. Little plans. You think you’re clever.”
Jordan snarls, “Shut up.”
Morazin chuckles. “I will, once you stop pretending you have control.”
I lean toward the mic, voice cold. “Say what you want.”
Morazin’s laughter softens into something sharper. “I have a bargain.”
Jordan’s expression goes rigid. “No.”
Morazin ignores her. “I will name High Lantern,” he says, voice almost singsong, “if you surrender Jordan to the Nine.”
The room’s temperature drops.
Jordan goes perfectly still, like her body just turned to glass.
I feel something in my chest snap into clarity so clean it’s almost calm.
I don’t need to think.
