His eyes flicker with something—fear, finally, slipping under the arrogance.
“You want names?” he rasps.
“Yes,” I say. “And I want the why.”
He swallows, throat bobbing against my grip. “We were paid through shells. League routing. Baragon-linked.”
My stomach tightens, not surprised, but angry that the pattern is so consistent it’s insulting.
“Baragon,” I repeat.
He coughs. “Not direct. Intermediaries. We don’t meet them. We get accounts. Dead drops. Contracts.”
“And Yatori?” I ask, voice low now, dangerous.
His eyes widen slightly.
That’s answer enough.
“You were there,” I say.
He tries to smile, but it’s weak now. “Heh. Yeah.”
My hand tightens on his throat. “Talk.”
He gasps. “Foreman—Morazin—he’s alive.”
The words slice through me sharper than any blade.
Morazin.
Jordan’s story. The station. The snapped voice. The overwriting logs.
Alive.
I lean closer, my breath warm against his face, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Say it again.”
He coughs. “Morazin Valeer. He lives. He coordinated the ground-side. He’s… not who you think he is.”
“What do I think he is?” I ask, almost amused despite the rage curling in my gut.
“A foreman,” the merc rasps. “A little prison rat with a badge. But he’s… funded. Protected. He’s got external backers.”
“Who,” I say, each syllable like a nail.
He shakes his head frantically. “I don’t know names. Only routing tags. Only that the money comes in—clean, big—like someone wants him alive.”
I stare at him, letting the implication bloom.
Morazin alive means Yatori wasn’t just a one-time spectacle.
It’s part of a pipeline.
A system.
A strategy.
