“And I heard the way you said your last name,” I add. “Kaijen. Like it’s supposed to mean something.”
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t know Coalition crime families,” I say, voice rising despite myself. “But I know what a syndicate name sounds like when it lands.”
Lonari’s gaze sharpens. “You’re fishing.”
“I’m trying to figure out if I’m trapped in a shuttle with a murderer who saved me out of convenience or a murderer who saved me because he wants leverage,” I snap. “So yeah. I’m fishing.”
The silence in the cockpit stretches, filled only by the soft whine of the engines and the occasional pop of stressed circuitry. The shuttle smells faintly like burnt insulation now, warmed by long flight.
Finally Lonari says, “My background isn’t relevant.”
“It’s relevant to me staying alive,” I retort. “Try again.”
He turns his head slightly, enough that the light catches along the ridge lines of his face and turns his scales glossy.
“You want the short version?” he asks.
“Give me the version that doesn’t get me killed.”
His mouth twitches again, that almost-smile.
“I’m a convict,” he says. “Convicted of murder.”
My stomach drops anyway, even though I knew it, even though I watched him kill two men without hesitation.
“Murder,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“And you want me to just…,” I gesture helplessly, “trust you?”
“No,” he says. “I want you to stay useful.”
The bluntness hits like a slap, and part of me is furious, but part of me—annoyingly—respects it because it’s honest.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing hard. “Who did you kill?”
“I didn’t,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“I didn’t do it,” he repeats, voice low. “I was framed.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for the manipulation. He doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay steady, clear, un-drugged, un-hysterical.
“By who?” I ask.
He shrugs, almost imperceptibly. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters if it’s true,” I argue.
He looks at me, and for the first time I see something beneath the control—a tightness around his eyes that feels like old rage banked behind bone.
“I don’t have proof,” he says. “Not here. Not now.”
“Convenient,” I mutter.
