Fyr’s voice drops into something almost gentle, and it hits me harder than any gunshot.
“Hey,” he says, loud enough for the crowd. “Look at me. I’m right here. You see my hands? Empty. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to get you through. One line. One step. Breathe.”
The crowd’s motion slows—just a fraction, but enough. Fyr’s teams form a corridor: bodies turned sideways, arms out, creating space. They guide families through first. They anchor the edges so people don’t collapse inward.
Strategy over rage.
In Fyr’s mouth, it sounds like a miracle.
Jordan’s voice whispers in my ear, stunned, “Is that… Fyr?”
“It is,” I say quietly.
“He’s… actually doing it.”
I hear something in her voice that isn’t just surprise. It’s respect. The kind she doesn’t give easily.
“Don’t distract him,” I reply. “Let him work.”
On the main feed, the hearing continues despite everything.
The moderator tries to keep their face neutral as siren alerts flash on their own device.
“—we remind viewers that any disturbances in Gur are being handled by local authorities?—”
Local authorities. Ha.
Morazin appears on screen.
His face is pale under the lights. Sweat beads at his temple. His eyes flick slightly, scanning the room the way prey scans for predators. The smugness is thinner today. The fear sits under it like a second skin.
Jordan is on the panel feed too—camera catching her in crisp profile, jaw set, eyes bright. She looks like she’s running on adrenaline and spite and the kind of moral clarity that gets you killed.
Clint isn’t on camera. He’s in the back channels, monitoring the restricted networks, ready to catch any trace High Lantern leaves if they try to intervene.
Morazin clears his throat.
The sound is amplified, too human.
“For the record,” the moderator says, “state your name and affiliation.”
Morazin’s mouth twitches, as if he wants to laugh and can’t afford to.
“Morazin Valeer,” he says. “Former—” he pauses, eyes flicking, “—former IHC contracted systems analyst.”
Jordan’s voice cuts in, cold. “Say what you really were.”
Morazin’s eyes flash at her. He swallows.
“Architect,” he says, voice tightening. “Of the operational deception campaign that led to the Yatori incident.”
A murmur ripples through the live chat overlays. People watching. People reacting.
Morazin continues, and as he speaks, I feel the city’s tension spike again—like the Nine can sense the truth becoming heavier.
“I orchestrated a false-flag sequence,” he says, words measured now, careful. “I forged authentication tokens and staged comm intercepts to implicate Alliance assets. The objective was escalation. Re-engagement.”
Jordan’s voice is sharp. “Funded by who?”
