“Not like this,” I reply.
The Gutter Saints’ leader, Father Vahl—older, soft voice, hard eyes—folds his hands. “You suspended tribute. You invited this.”
I smile without warmth. “Yeah. I did. And you’re welcome.”
A low ripple of irritation moves through the room.
Coalhand rep narrows her gaze. “You didn’t call us here to argue about your ego.”
“No,” I say. “I called you here because we’re about to do something public. Loud. The kind of loud that makes governments sweat.”
Father Vahl’s lips tighten. “You mean the hearing.”
I watch the word land. Even in criminal circles, “hearing” sounds like the opposite of their world. It sounds like courts and rules and people pretending they’ve got moral high ground.
It also sounds like exposure.
Which is why they’re afraid.
“Yes,” I say. “The hearing.”
Dockwright Union rep—a stocky man with a scar down his cheek—spits. “Public means targets. Public means bodies.”
I nod once. “Correct.”
Spindle’s pretty man scoffs. “So you want us to stand beside you while the Nine cuts our throats.”
“I want you to stand beside yourselves,” I reply. “Because if you don’t, they’ll cut your throats anyway. Just quieter. One by one.”
Father Vahl leans forward slightly. “You want backing. Public support. Why would any of us risk our operations for your war?”
I let the silence stretch until it starts to hurt.
Then I say, “Because it’s not my war.”
A few brows lift. Skepticism.
I tap a control on the table. The room’s holo projector hums to life.
A map of Gur blooms above us—trade arteries, labor routes, shipping lanes, the delicate web that keeps the city fed. Then the overlay: Nine triggers. Financial doomsday clauses. Contractcollapses. Asset freezes. The same poison Senn showed me, but expanded—broader, uglier.
Their faces change as they see it.
Coalhand rep’s jaw tightens. “What is that?”
“It’s the Nine’s plan,” I say, voice low. “The one they’ve been building under your noses while you paid tribute and told yourselves it was the cost of doing business.”
Dockwright rep squints. “Those are?—”
“Collapse points,” I confirm. “They can crater Gur’s economy in hours. Supply routes vanish. Credit lines freeze. Contracts self-terminate. Labor guild accounts get seized through proxy liens.”
Father Vahl’s eyes sharpen. “And you have proof?”
I gesture. “Transaction logs. Shell routing. Trigger clauses. And—” I flick another layer into view, highlighting a set of comm notes and propaganda drafts—“their narrative.”
The room goes still.
Spindle’s pretty man leans in despite himself. “What narrative?”
