The assassin convulses, muscles locking. Their weapon clatters to the floor.
I stumble back, chest heaving, and kick the weapon away, sending it skittering under the cart.
The shutters slam fully closed at both ends with a heavy clang.
We’re sealed in.
For a fraction of a second, the only sound is my breathing—loud, ragged—and the faint hum of the grid.
Then the assassin’s eyes refocus, furious, and they start to push against the stun lock.
Tougher than they should be.
Nine-grade.
Of course.
Clint stands frozen, shaking. “What do we do?”
I swallow hard, keeping my voice steady. “We wait three seconds for Kaijen response.”
And like the Nun is listening, boots thunder outside the shutter. Voices bark in Kaijen dialect.
A narrow access slit opens and a guard’s face appears. “Jordan!”
“Assassin,” I snap. “Stunned but not down. Get in here.”
The slit closes. Locks clank. The shutter rises halfway, just enough for Kaijen muscle to pour in like a flood.
They pin the assassin, strip weapons, rip off the cap, the uniform, the disguise. Underneath is a lean operative with a neutral face and eyes like dead glass.
They don’t speak.
They never do.
Not unless you make them.
I stand there shaking, tray still in my hand like a ridiculous shield, and my mouth tastes like burned oil and fear.
Clint stares at the scene, pale. “Inside the Nun,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “They’re getting bold.”
A laugh echoes from the comm speaker clipped to the wall.
Low.
Mocking.
We all go still.
Morazin’s channel.
Someone must have left it open on the operations net.
His voice slides through, delighted.
“You’re close enough to die for it now.”
