I’m not standing down.
I’m just starting quiet.
As we walk the corridor back toward the casino floor, I lean slightly toward Renn, voice low.
“Get me access to the internal ledgers,” I say. “All of them. Old records too. Medical logs. Security footage. Succession memos.”
Renn swallows. “Lonari… the Nine?—”
“I don’t care,” I say softly. “I want everything.”
Renn’s eyes flick nervously toward the ceiling as if the walls have ears.
They do.
So I smile again, easy, like I’m a man returning home to play his role.
And while the Nun’s music swells and the casino lights glitter like a thousand lies, I begin quietly digging my fingers into the family’s bones, searching for where the rot started—because if Kel won’t let me pursue Yatori, then I’ll pursue the reason he’s afraid of it.
And I will tear the truth out of this place the same way I tore it out of the wilderness.
One careful piece at a time.
CHAPTER 7
JORDAN
The room they put me in is the kind of luxury that tries too hard.
Everything is soft in the wrong places—thick carpeting that swallows footsteps, a bed that looks like it’s never been slept in without permission, drapes that shimmer faintly with embedded holo-thread. The air smells expensive, like warm amber and citrus and something floral that makes my throat itch, and beneath it I can still taste Gur’s grime—oil, metal, human sweat baked into a planet that doesn’t believe in clean.
There’s a window, but it’s not really a window. It’s a panoramic display set to “night skyline,” showing the Defrocked Nun’s neon heart pulsing outside: drifting holo-ads, bright signage, a constant glittering stream of traffic. Even the sky looks curated here, like the stars are props.
I sit at the desk anyway, because sitting on the bed feels like surrender, and I plug my compad into a Kaijen terminal dock that looks like a piece of art until you realize it’s also a weapon. The screen blooms with a sleek interface—Kaijen servers, security partitions, bandwidth allocations that make my old IHC contracts look like children’s toys.
My archive drive sits beside my elbow like a loaded gun.
I stare at it for a second, then press my palm flat over it, grounding myself in the texture of the casing—warm, slightly scratched, real.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re not doing feelings. We’re doing data.”
A soft chime sounds near the door.
I freeze.
The door doesn’t open. A voice comes through a discreet speaker, polite and mildly threatening in the way polite threats always are.
“Miss James. Refreshments have been provided.”
I glance toward the side table. I hadn’t even noticed it when I walked in, but now there’s a tray: a glass of water that looks too perfect to drink, and a plate of something that might be food if you squint hard enough.
“I’m good,” I call back.
A pause. Then, “The Godfather requests you remain available.”
I close my eyes, inhaling slowly. The air tastes like perfume and control.
“Tell the Godfather I’m not a houseplant,” I say evenly. “I don’t just sit here and look pretty.”
