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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.