The wounded merc on the floor tries to crawl. I step on his rifle, pinning it, and crouch over him.
His helmet visor reflects my eyes—red on red—like two demons meeting in a mirror.
“Who sent you?” I ask softly.
He spits blood and laughs, wet and ugly. “You’re late, Kaijen.”
I grab his helmet and yank.
The seal breaks with a hiss. His face is human. Mid-thirties maybe. Cybernetic implant along his jawline. Pupils dilated but not drugged—enhanced, maybe.
He looks at me like I’m a paycheck.
“Who sent you?” I repeat, voice still calm.
He grins. “You think this is about you?”
The words land wrong.
Because he’s right.
This isn’t a hit on the Nun for profit. It’s too precise. Too coordinated. Too familiar.
It’s a message.
A warning.
A leash tightening.
I slam my fist into his throat hard enough to cut off air but not kill him. He gags, eyes bulging, hands clawing at my wrist.
“Try again,” I say conversationally. “Who sent you?”
Before he can answer, my comm crackles.
Jordan again, breath fast. “Lonari—there are more in the lower maintenance access. They’re trying to come up behind your teams.”
“Of course they are,” I mutter.
“How do you want me to?—”
“Lock the maintenance bulkheads,” I snap. “Trap them.”
“I don’t have clearance,” she fires back.
“You do now,” I growl. “Renn—give her admin for ninety seconds.”
Renn’s voice, strained: “Boss, that’s?—”
“Do it.”
A pause. Then Jordan’s voice again, softer, focused. “Okay. Got it. Override accepted. Bulkheads closing.”
Metal groans somewhere below as doors seal.
I look down at the merc under my hand, now wheezing.
“You’re boxed,” I tell him. “So here’s how this goes. You talk, you breathe. You don’t, you choke until you see stars. And I promise you, I’ve got patience. Prison taught me patience.”
