“Where are we landing?” I ask, bracing a hand on the console as the shuttle bucks.
Lonari’s eyes stay forward. “A place that belongs to me.”
My throat tightens. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” he says.
The city below sharpens as we drop lower—tower clusters, neon streaks, skeletal cranes, massive domed structures that look like they were built for entertainment and intimidation in equal measure. One complex stands out even from the air: a sprawling, glittering mass of lights and curved architecture surrounded by darker industrial blocks, like a jewel shoved into a bruised fist.
Lonari’s gaze fixes on it.
“There,” he says.
“What is that?” I ask, though I already feel the answer in the way his voice settles.
His mouth curves faintly, and the expression is all dark humor and ownership.
“The Defrocked Nun,” he says.
I stare down at the glowing complex as it swells beneath us, my pulse pounding, my archive drive heavy against my chest, my mind screaming that this is insane and my body reacting anyway—because I’m alive, because I’m not back on Yatori, because the universe has shoved me into the orbit of a man who kills like breathing and talks like danger wrapped in dry jokes.
I swallow.
“Of course it’s called that,” I whisper.
Lonari glances at me, amusement flickering. “You’ll fit right in.”
“I really won’t,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies, and the shuttle begins its final descent toward the glittering crime-palace below. “That’s what makes it fun.”
CHAPTER 6
LONARI
Gur smells like money that’s been handled too many times.
It hits you the second the shuttle’s seal breaks and the outside air slithers in—hot, oily, laced with exhaust and spice and the faint metallic tang of industry grinding away in the distance. There’s a sweetness underneath it too, the perfume of whatever’s being pumped through the city vents to make people forget they’re breathing in toxins. It’s a liar’s air. Familiar as a bruise you keep pressing.
The Defrocked Nun rises ahead of us like someone built a cathedral for sin and then decided to add a casino on top just to be funny. Curved architecture plated in polished alloys, neon filigree that crawls along the outer ribs like veins of electric color, and a rotating holo-saint above the main entrance—wings spread, face serene, hands posed in blessing while the building underneath eats credits and souls with equal appetite.
I haven’t seen it in five years.
Five years of dust and ration stink and silence, of bodies dropping in the wilderness and the constant hum of the containment field threading into my bones. Five years of telling myself I didn’t miss this place. That I didn’t miss anything.
Then I step out of the shuttle and my chest tightens like the air has hands.
Jordan comes down the ramp behind me, blinking against the glare, her face drawn tight with exhaustion and adrenaline that never fully drains. She clutches her bag like it’s the last thing between her and being swallowed whole, and she keeps looking around like she expects a sniper on every balcony.
Which… fair.
“Is it always this loud?” she asks, voice pitched low.
The Nun’s entrance plaza is a symphony of life: engines whining, people shouting, music pulsing from hidden speakers like a heartbeat, laughter spilling out of open doors. Holo-ads flicker over the crowds—women with glittering skin promising luck, men with sharp smiles promising revenge, everything for sale and everybody pretending they’re not desperate.
“It’s quiet compared to some nights,” I tell her.
She stares at me like I’m insane. “You’re kidding.”
