Then he says, quieter, “I need to know you’re alive.”
My anger stutters. Because that’s not control. That’s fear in a language he hates speaking.
I swallow. “I’ll give you one thing.”
He watches me.
“One anonymous emergency beacon,” I say. “Only you can decode it. No Kaijen signatures. No traceable routing. If I’m in danger, I ping it once.”
Lonari’s gaze holds mine, and I see the battle in him—cage versus respect, instinct versus choice.
“Fine,” he says finally.
Renn exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a week.
Lonari steps closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” I whisper.
He looks like he wants to argue. Instead he just says, rougher, “Don’t die.”
I manage a thin smile. “Try to stop me.”
And then I turn and leave before the softness in the moment can trick me into staying.
The cover identity works because boredom is camouflage.
I walk through side corridors in a plain tech jacket, compad clipped to my belt like I belong to the building’s bloodstream. I hand over my forged work order at checkpoints. Guards barely glance at it—paperwork fatigue is universal. One stamps it with a bored flick.
I keep my pace steady even as my heart tries to break out of my ribs.
At the final checkpoint near the outbound maintenance shuttle bay, I trigger my timed camera loop. The hallway feed repeats emptiness while I slide through a blind angle.
The shuttle is small, ugly, functional. The bay air smells like old fuel and hot metal. Somewhere nearby, someone is yelling about a delayed shipment, and it’s the most comforting sound in the world because it means life is still happening in petty ways.
I strap in, head down, and when the shuttle lifts, the Defrocked Nun shrinks beneath me—neon and violence and money condensed into a glittering bruise against Gur’s sprawl.
I don’t look for Lonari.
If I look, I’ll hesitate.
And hesitation is how you die.
We clear atmosphere. The sky darkens into stars.
My nav console pings softly—one quiet chime that makes my blood turn to ice.
Passive tracking.
A whisper of a signal hitching onto my shuttle’s signature like a shadow.
“Of course,” I mutter, fingers already moving.
I kill all broadcast functions. Full comm blackout. No polite participation in traffic nets. No friendly pings.
Then I drift cold for a full minute—engines silent, inertial path carrying me like debris. The cabin is too quiet. I can hear my own breath. I can smell my own sweat.
The tracking ping wavers.
