If I leave in “Kaijen style” transport, I’ll be flagged as syndicate property and intercepted before I even reach a corridor gate. If I take official routes, I’ll light up every scanner like a beacon that sayswitness available for capture.
I swallow hard.
“We’re going ghost,” I whisper.
I build a cover identity fast: casino systems subcontractor, outbound maintenance shuttle, routine relay calibration. I forge a work order with Kaijen formatting and bureaucratic language so dull it could sedate a predator. I hack a customs stamp by copying a legitimate outbound cargo pod authorization pattern and bending the timestamp into the maintenance window.
Then I loop a hallway camera feed—thirty seconds of empty corridor on repeat.
My heart hammers. My palms sweat. The air tastes like metal and fear.
I leave the server spine and head to Lonari because I’m not stupid enough to vanish without a single tether—and because the last thing I want is him thinking I’m dead.
He’s in his war room, holo displays blooming around him: street feeds, guard positions, internal ledgers. Renn is there, jaw tight. Enforcers linger by the door like they’re part of the architecture.
Lonari turns when I enter and his gaze sweeps me—boots on, bag on shoulder, hair tied back, expression too focused. He knows immediately.
“You’re leaving,” he says, not a question.
“Yes,” I reply.
Renn’s eyes widen. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Lonari steps closer, voice low. “No.”
I stare up at him. “Lonari. I’m not asking permission.”
His jaw flexes. “You’re walking into a corridor that can get you contained or killed.”
“I’m aware,” I snap. “I spoke to Clint Rogers.”
Renn flinches at the name like it’s a landmine.
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “Clint.”
“He verified the partial package,” I say. “He flagged the biometrics as merc kit. He’s arranging a covert meet with General Dowron via a medical resupply corridor.”
Lonari’s posture tightens. “Alliance.”
“Complicated Alliance,” I shoot back. “Not the kind wearing stolen armor.”
Lonari exhales, controlled. “I’m assigning a tail.”
“No,” I say immediately.
His eyes harden. “Jordan?—”
“Anything Kaijen on my exit route flags me,” I cut in, voice fierce. “If your people shadow me, I get tagged. I become syndicate property on paper. I’m not letting anyone label me like that.”
The room goes tight.
Lonari’s voice drops, dangerous. “You’re not property.”
“Then don’t treat me like something you can attach a leash to,” I say, and my throat burns with it.
For a moment the air feels like it might spark.
