My pulse quickens.
“Got you,” I whisper.
I cross-reference the tag against Kaijen internal blacklists. A file pops up—fragmentary intel, rumors, compiled by syndicate analysts who probably look like accountants until they break your kneecaps.
Baragon. League shadow consortium. Time-lost boogeymen in some stories, real money movers in others.
I sit back slowly, letting the implications settle into my gut like cold lead.
This is bigger than a prison moon.
This is someone pushing the galaxy toward war because war is profitable.
My compad vibrates suddenly—an incoming local message.
I flinch, then see the sender: Lonari Kaijen
A single line.
You alive?
I stare at the words, heat prickling behind my eyes.
He’s checking.
Not because he has to. He already knows I’m useful.
So why?
I type back.
Barely. Your “friends” are charming.
His reply comes almost immediately.
They’re not my friends. Stay in the room. Don’t open the door for anyone.
I snort softly.
What, no bedtime story?
A pause.
Then:
If I tell you a story, you’ll ask questions. I don’t have time to lie right now.
I stare at that, surprised despite myself.
Honest, in his own blunt way.
Before I can respond, another message pings—this one not from Lonari, but from a system notification: SECURITY ESCORT AVAILABLE — REQUESTED BY RENN
Great. A babysitter.
A knock sounds at the door, soft but insistent.
“Miss James?” a male voice says. “Escort. For your safety.”
