Because if you don’t steer a crowd after a spectacle, it stampedes.
And I’m not letting anyone point this rage at Vakutan civilians, or Alliance civilians, or anyone who just wants to go to work without being used as kindling.
I hit publish.
The briefing goes live across the same redundant network architecture that kept the hearing alive. It’s calm. It’s direct. It’s brutal in its simplicity.
I clarify what happened without turning it into a cultural war.
I name the enemy where it belongs: the Nine and Baragon’s funding channels. I state, plainly, that Vakutan civilians are not the architects of this. That the rot is in procurement loops and council-tier sabotage, not in the hands of a market vendor trying to sell bread.
I can practically hear some rage-addict commentators getting disappointed that I didn’t hand them a target they can hate easily.
Good.
Let them be disappointed.
I’m done feeding mobs.
My compad pings again—this time a message from Lonari.
ROOFTOP. NOW.
No explanation. No emoji. Just the kind of command he uses when he’s trying to sound calm but doesn’t trust calm.
I take one last look at the market.
People are still moving.
Still alive.
I let the sight tattoo itself into my memory like armor.
Then I go.
The Defrocked Nun’srooftop is not romantic in the traditional sense.
It’s not a quiet garden with soft lanterns and a string quartet pretending violence doesn’t exist.
It’s concrete and steel and wind, with a perimeter that screams “sniper deterrent” if you know what you’re looking at. Kaijen guards posted in corners like statues. Drones patrolling in slow, methodical loops. Line-of-sight control points. Emergency evac access through a hatch that’s disguised as a maintenance panel.
Lonari’s idea of safety is readiness, not hiding.
And honestly?
It works.
He’s already up there when I arrive, standing near the edge where you can see Gur’s skyline—industrial stacks, neon veins, the glittering lie of wealth overlaying the city’s bones. The wind hits my face, cool and sharp, carrying scents from below: hot oil, engine exhaust, distant rain. It tastes like metal and possibility.
Lonari turns when he hears me. His coat flutters slightly. His posture is loose but alert—like he’s trying, and failing, to pretend he isn’t always in a fight.
His eyes land on me and soften, almost imperceptibly.
“You published,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Before someone else weaponizes the narrative.”
He nods once, approving. “Smart.”
