My voice goes quiet. “Then you die, and the evidence detonates everywhere, and the people who killed you become visible.”
Morazin stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language.
I realize, suddenly, that he has never believed in anything that wasn’t privately controlled. He’s never believed in visibility as protection. He’s only believed in backroom leverage.
Which is why he’s terrified.
His voice is raw when he says, “You’re insane.”
I shrug, almost gentle. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”
Morazin looks away. For a second, he closes his eyes like he’s trying not to be sick.
Then, softly, like it costs him: “If I do this… there’s no going back.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That’s the point.”
I stand and turn toward the vault door. “We’ll be back. Don’t bite any more tracking devices into your skull.”
Morazin’s laugh is brittle. “No promises.”
I don’t smile. I just leave.
The operations room upstairs feels warmer, louder—even though it’s still underground by most standards. The air smells like coffee that’s been reheated too many times, warm electronics, and the faint perfume the Nun pumps through vents to keep gamblers happy.
Clint is at a terminal, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched, eyes scanning security overlays like he’s trying to see his own execution schedule hidden in the pixels.
Lonari isn’t in here right now—he’s coordinating the city shielding plan, moving pieces on a board that includes civilians whether we like it or not.
Which means it’s just me and Clint and the truth.
I slap a data pad onto the desk. “Run it again.”
Clint glances up. “Jordan?—”
“Run. It. Again,” I repeat.
He exhales sharply, eyes tired. “The last time I ran it, the system flagged an internal breach. My channels are already lit up.”
“I know,” I say. “But the packet gave us more structure. More hooks. We might get a stronger match.”
Clint stares at me for a beat like he wants to argue, then he nods once—grim, resigned.
“Fine,” he says. “But if this trips another alarm?—”
“It will,” I cut in. “We’re past subtle.”
Clint’s mouth tightens. “Yeah. We are.”
He plugs into the restricted interface again—different route this time, using a deeper credential chain he clearly hates touching.
His fingers move fast. He types the biometric trace in.
The screen hums. A progress arc creeps forward.
My heart pounds in my throat.
Then—
