Another man further down the corridor reroutes armory access on his wrist comp, moving weapons under the excuse of “protection.”
And then Captain Soria—a woman with a scar along her jaw and loyalty that always looked solid—steps into my path.
Her voice is careful. “Boss.”
“What,” I say.
Her eyes flick past me, as if she expects Jordan to be at my shoulder. “Is the human a bargaining chip?”
The question is a test. A probe. A way to see if I’m still playing the old game.
I stare at her for a beat, then answer with the truth.
“No,” I say. “She’s not.”
Soria’s jaw tightens. “Then why are we bleeding for her?”
Because she’s right. Because they tried to erase the truth. Because I refuse to be a puppet.
But I don’t give her the poetry.
“We’re bleeding because the Nine already cut us,” I say. “She just proved where the blade went in.”
Soria hesitates, then pushes. “Kel wants her surrendered. Fyr said?—”
I cut her off, voice sharp. “Fyr doesn’t speak for me.”
Soria’s expression hardens. “So you’re choosing her over the family.”
That word—choosing—hits like a match near gasoline.
I take one step closer. “Watch your mouth.”
Soria lifts her chin. “Or what?”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to.
“Or you lose your rank,” I say calmly.
The corridor goes quiet. Even the guards seem to stop breathing.
Soria’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”
I look her dead in the face. “Try me.”
She swallows, pride warring with survival.
“Captain Soria,” I say, voice carrying, “you’re stripped. Effective immediately.”
Her mouth falls open.
Renn steps forward and removes her insignia with crisp efficiency, like he’s been waiting for permission.
Soria’s face flushes with fury and humiliation. “Lonari?—”
“Walk away,” I tell her. “Before you make me do worse.”
She glares at me like she wants to spit, then turns and storms off, shoulders shaking.
