Morazin hesitates—then says, “Baragon channels.”
The word lands like a brick.
Baragon: old money, deep holdings, the kind of name that sits in boardrooms and smiles while wars happen far away.
Jordan’s eyes narrow. “You have proof?”
Morazin gives a brittle laugh. “I am the proof.”
I watch the stream metrics. Viewership spikes. Secondary relays pick up. The mirrors multiply. Every time the Nine tries to shove the feed sideways, Jordan’s architecture routes around the damage like blood rerouting around a clot.
Morazin’s voice grows steadier as he settles into confession like a man surrendering to gravity.
“We acquired mercenary armor through theft,” he says. “Alliance armory shipments were redirected through shell procurement. The safehouse assault—” his gaze flicks away, “—utilized Alliance-grade weaponry.”
Jordan’s eyes harden. “Confirm the Nine.”
Morazin exhales. “The Nine facilitated logistics and enforcement. They are not… a myth. They are a network.”
My fingers curl on the armrest. Hearing him say it out loud on a live feed feels like ripping a curtain down and finding a monster behind it—except the monster is bigger than we thought.
Jordan leans forward, voice tight. “High Lantern.”
The room seems to inhale.
Morazin’s jaw clenches. His eyes flick, fearful.
“Yes,” he says, quieter.
Jordan’s voice goes cold. “Explain.”
Morazin swallows. “High Lantern is—” he hesitates, then forces the words out, “—the authorization layer. The liaison directive. The signature that makes procurement and comm access possible across jurisdictions.”
Jordan’s hands tighten on the table. “Name them.”
Morazin’s fear spikes so visibly the camera catches it. His pupils widen. His breathing quickens.
He shakes his head once, small. “I can’t.”
Jordan’s voice rises, angry. “You can. You’re doing it right now.”
Morazin’s mouth twists. “Not without immunity.”
The moderator shifts, nervous. “Mr. Valeer?—”
Morazin cuts them off, voice brittle and desperate. “You want the name? You guarantee I live.”
Jordan’s eyes blaze. “This isn’t a bargaining table.”
Morazin laughs, cracked. “Everything is a bargaining table. You just pretend it isn’t.”
My comm crackles—Rook, urgent. “Nine jammers escalating. They’re pushing another comm spike.”
Sable snaps, “We’re routing around.”
On screen, Morazin’s vitals flicker slightly as he panics. The biometric trigger remains armed, a digital guillotine waiting.
And then?—
