Lonari’s gaze shifts to the split-screen data, then back to Morazin. He doesn’t look surprised.
He looks like someone who expected rot and is finally seeing how deep it goes.
Morazin stares at the live cross-match with something like horror.
“You’re actually doing it,” he breathes.
“Yeah,” I say. “You don’t get to gatekeep this anymore.”
The moderator’s voice cracks through the noise. “Ms. James, you are making extraordinary allegations against Alliance High Command?—”
“I’m making documented correlations,” I snap. “The extraordinary part is that someone thought this would stay buried.”
I expand the highlighted candidate signature on the public feed—showing the procurement approval stamps, the civilian oversight routing loops, the cross-jurisdiction encryption handshake. I annotate in real time, my voice steady even though my skin feels too tight for my bones.
“Here,” I say, pointing to the screen, “is the armory shipment authorization used in the safehouse assault. Here is the civilian oversight committee routing tag that allowed it to bypass standard military audit. And here—” I pull up the sniper telemetry registry— “is the weapon that just tried to kill our witness, registered to High Command security.”
The chat feed is no longer coherent. It’s a storm.
Somewhere in High Command, someone is either hyperventilating or already drafting my obituary.
Clint’s voice drops to a whisper. “Jordan… this isn’t going to trigger a quiet response.”
“It was never going to be quiet,” I say.
Morazin coughs again, wincing as the medic seals the wound with a stabilizing foam. His eyes lock onto mine.
“You think you’re brave,” he says hoarsely. “You’re just loud.”
“Loud works,” I reply.
His lip curls faintly. “You still don’t have the name.”
I look at him carefully.
“You’re going to give it to me,” I say.
Morazin shakes his head weakly. “You’ll get me killed.”
“You’re already on a sniper’s list,” I shoot back. “So let’s stop pretending silence is safety.”
Lonari steps slightly into frame—not blocking me, not overshadowing, but present. Protective without stealing the moment.
Morazin looks between us.
His fear is no longer abstract. It’s immediate. He just felt the bullet. He saw the live feed spike. He knows that whoever authorized that shot is watching.
His voice drops to a rasp.
“They won’t forgive this.”
I lean in closer, lowering my tone so it feels intimate even though the camera is still rolling.
“Good,” I whisper. “I’m not asking for forgiveness.”
The moderator swallows hard. “Mr. Valeer… for the sake of clarity… you have indicated a council-level authorization. Are you prepared to identify the individual responsible?”
Morazin’s eyes flick upward, as if he can see the council chamber in his mind. The polished table. The quiet nod that set this in motion. The confidence that no one would ever trace it back.
