“No,” I say. “I’m just used to worse.”
She exhales through her nose. “You need therapy.”
I glance down at her. “You gonna bill me?”
Her mouth twitches, and the flicker of humor looks strange on her face right now, like a crack in stone.
We start walking.
The guards see me within three steps.
They’re posted at the plaza’s edges, dressed in tailored black with Kaijen insignia stitched subtle at the collar, weapons slung casual but ready. They look like they stepped out of a crime holo—sharp suits, sharper eyes, the kind of men who smile while they ruin you.
The first one freezes.
His gaze slides over me like he’s trying to decide if I’m a ghost or a threat.
Then his hand moves toward his comm.
I don’t slow down.
The second guard’s jaw drops.
“Holy—” he starts.
“Don’t,” I say, voice calm, like I’m talking to a dog that needs to remember who owns the leash. “You’ll embarrass yourself.”
He shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click.
By the time we hit the main doors, the plaza has shifted. Word moves in a place like this faster than light. Heads turn. Bodies angle away. Murmurs ripple like water disturbed by something big swimming underneath.
Jordan leans closer to me, her voice barely audible over the music and crowd noise. “They’re staring.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Try not to wave.”
“I’m not waving,” she hisses.
“You’re doing that thing with your hands,” I tell her without looking.
“What thing?”
“The ‘I’m trying to look normal’ thing,” I say. “It’s cute.”
She makes a sound that could be a laugh or a growl. “Shut up.”
The main doors open automatically as we approach, recognizing my gait and my biometrics before anyone inside has the courage to decide whether to stop me.
Warm air rolls out—perfume, sweat, alcohol, cooked meat, and a faint underlying chemical note from the air scrubbers fighting to keep the place breathable. The light inside is golden and soft, designed to flatter every face and make the world feel safer than it is. The carpet underfoot is thick enough to muffle footsteps, patterned in swirling reds and blacks like spilled wine.
I step into the Nun and the sound hits me full force.
Music. Laughter. Slot machines chiming. Cards snapping on felt. Dealers calling numbers like prayers.
And layered beneath it all, the subtle click of weapons shifting as security notices me.
The nearest blackjack table goes quiet.
A Fratvoyan dealer—small, furred, grinning too wide—drops his cards mid-shuffle. They scatter across the felt.
