A sharp sound.
Not loud.
Too precise.
A sniper shot.
The impact is visible on camera as Morazin’s body jerks violently. Blood blossoms on his shoulder—high, near the collarbone. His mouth opens in a soundless gasp. His eyes go wide, stunned.
The room erupts.
Jordan stands, chair scraping. “NO?—!”
The moderator yells something incoherent.
The stream chat explodes.
And the most important thing—the most damning thing—is that everyone watching can see it.
Live.
A witness being silenced in real time.
My body moves before my mind finishes the sentence.
I’m out of the command spine and down the corridor in seconds, boots pounding, heart steady and furious. The air smells like perfume and panic. Guards shout. Doors seal. The Nun locks down in layers.
I reach the hearing room entrance as Kaijen security teams rush in, weapons up, scanning angles.
Morazin is slumped in his chair, blood soaking his shirt. Not dead. Not yet.
Jordan is at his side, hands hovering like she wants to press the wound and also throttle him for demanding immunity mid-stream. Her face is pale with rage.
“Lonari!” she snaps when she sees me.
I don’t answer. I vault the barrier and cross the room in two strides.
The sniper shot came from somewhere—vent, corridor, disguised staff—doesn’t matter right now. The second shot will come if we give them line-of-sight.
I grab Morazin’s restraint frame and haul it sideways—hard cover angle—dragging him behind the reinforced panel wall that’s built into the set. Metal screeches. The camera follows, because Jordan’s architecture forces it to. No cutaways. No tasteful censorship. The world sees everything.
Morazin groans, voice raw. “You?—”
“Shut up,” I growl, and my claws dig into the frame as I reposition him deeper into cover.
Jordan’s eyes meet mine—shock, fury, something like grim vindication.
“They shot him,” she whispers, voice shaking.
“Yeah,” I say, breath hard. “On camera.”
Her jaw tightens. “They’re trying to kill the testimony.”
“And they just proved it matters,” I reply.
Behind us, Kaijen teams fan out, sealing the room, tracing the shot vector. Sable’s voice crackles in my ear: “We’re tracking the angle. It came from an interior maintenance line—staff access.”
Of course.
