“Because you’re always where you shouldn’t be,” I say.
He bristles. “I don’t have it.”
I nod once. “Then we do it the old way.”
I move to a steel cabinet on the wall marked with a Kaijen crest and a physical lock. I can smell the oil on the mechanism—old, maintained, stubborn.
Renn shifts. “Boss?—”
“I know,” I say, and I grip the cabinet handle and wrench.
Metal groans. The lock resists. My muscles tense, scales along my arms tightening. I pull harder, and with a shriek of stressed steel the lock snaps.
The cabinet door flies open.
Inside: archival drives in sealed sleeves. Medical logs. Security footage shards. Succession memos—paper and digital, redundantly stored like paranoia made physical.
Fyr’s face goes pale. “Lonari, that’s?—”
“Property,” I say. “Family property.”
I yank out a sleeve labeled MEDICAL — GODFATHER KEL / PRIVATE and slap it onto the console.
The system reads it.
A file opens.
Vitals. Biometric signatures. Medication schedules.
Then—
A fragment.
A torn death certificate scan, incomplete but unmistakable.
SUBJECT: KEL KAIIJEN
STATUS: DECEASED
DATE: [REDACTED—PARTIAL]
The date is visible enough to make my blood run cold.
It contradicts everything.
It predates the public story.
It predates the “illness.” The “recovery.” The “new mask.” The “quiet change.”
Fyr stares at it like it’s a ghost that just spoke his name.
“What the hell…?” he whispers.
Renn’s voice is low. “That’s not possible.”
I swallow the rage so it doesn’t explode too early.
“Oh, it’s possible,” I murmur. “It’s just ugly.”
