“Under my protection,” I repeat.
Renn nods slowly, but suspicion doesn’t leave his face. “The Godfather?—”
“I’m going to see him,” I say.
Renn’s throat bobs. “Now?”
“Now,” I confirm.
Renn glances around as if expecting assassins to drop from the ceiling. “They said you were dead.”
“I’m aware,” I say dryly. “People love telling stories when I’m not around to correct them.”
Jordan’s eyes flick between us. “They told people you were dead?”
I don’t look at her. “Later.”
Renn gestures toward a side corridor lined with velvet curtains and discreet security panels. “This way.”
As we move, security closes in—not on me, but around us, a subtle tightening of formation. Kaijen men in suits with concealed weapons. Women too, sharp-eyed and harder than the men. They watch Jordan like she’s a bomb someone carried in as a joke.
Jordan leans toward me again, voice tight. “They all look like they want to kill me.”
“They all look like they want to know if you’re worth killing,” I correct.
“That’s… worse.”
“No,” I say. “Worse is when they’ve already decided.”
We pass through a set of doors that require a palm scan and a spoken code phrase. Renn says the phrase in Grolgath dialect—old, formal, but with a street twist that makes it sound like he learned it in alleyways, not temples. The doors open into a quieter, richer corridor.
The air smells different here—less smoke, more polished wood and expensive oils. The carpet is thicker. The lighting is dimmer. The walls are lined with framed holo-portraits of Kaijen leaders, old and new, their eyes following you like judgment.
Jordan slows, staring at one portrait in particular: a massive Grolgath with scarred scales and a grin that looks like it knows secrets.
“That’s…” she starts.
“Don’t,” I say.
She shuts her mouth, but I see her swallow.
We reach the Godfather’s doors.
Two guards stand there, suits immaculate, weapons visible now because this is the inner circle and nobody pretends. Their eyes widen when they see me, then narrow as if they’re trying to read the angle.
One steps forward. “Lonari Kaijen.”
I nod once. “Open.”
He hesitates. “The Godfather?—”
“Open,” I repeat, and my voice doesn’t rise, but something inside it does.
The guard swallows and presses his palm to the panel.
The doors slide open.
Warm air spills out—spiced tea, incense, and the faint sterile scent of life-support systems. The room beyond is half office, half throne room: heavy furniture, dark wood, low lighting, holographic screens floating near the ceiling displaying financial dashboards, territory maps, shipping lanes.
