Renn nods once. “Be careful.”
I hold his gaze for a beat, then nod. “Get out.”
He leaves.
I close the door and the lock clicks, a small sound that suddenly feels like a prayer.
Jordan is sittingcross-legged on the bed, compad propped on her knees, holo panels floating above her like a storm of numbers. She looks up when I enter, hair messy, eyes sharp, wearing my shirt like it belongs to her. The sight hits me in the chest in a way I don’t have language for, so I don’t try.
“You have the face,” she says immediately.
I snort. “The face?”
“The ‘I’m about to tell you something stupid and dangerous’ face,” she clarifies, tapping her compad. “It’s very expressive for someone who pretends he’s carved out of stone.”
I walk to the bar cabinet and pour myself a drink I don’t need, because my hands need something to do besides break things. The liquor smells like spice and smoke and the kind of money that thinks it’s immortal.
“Kel wants you,” I say.
Jordan’s expression doesn’t change—she just goes a little still, like a cat hearing a door open.
“Define wants,” she says, voice careful.
“He ordered me to surrender you,” I reply.
Jordan blinks once. Then, because she’s Jordan, she laughs—short, incredulous, bitter.
“Wow,” she says. “That’s… bold.”
I take a slow sip. The liquor burns down my throat and settles in my gut like a small controlled fire.
“They’re scared,” I say.
“Of me?” she asks, eyebrows lifting. “That’s cute. I’m five-foot-nothing and I cry at sad holos.”
“They’re scared of what you carry,” I correct. “And what you make me do.”
Jordan’s gaze holds mine for a moment longer than necessary. Then she looks down at her compad again, like data is safer than feelings.
“So what’s the plan?” she asks, voice too casual.
“The plan is you don’t leave this room without me,” I say.
Jordan makes a face. “I hate that.”
“I don’t care,” I reply.
She exhales sharply, frustrated. “Lonari, I’m not a vase.”
“You’re not a vase,” I agree. “You’re evidence. And you’re a target.”
Jordan’s mouth tightens. “I can handle myself.”
“I watched you get chased by drugged inmates with a compad in your hand,” I say, deadpan. “Let’s not rewrite history.”
Her eyes flash. “I’m still alive.”
“Because I was there,” I say.
