I open a secure channel to Clint—tight, quick.
“Clint,” I whisper. “I’m being intercepted. Private security. Credentials look fake.”
Static crackles.
Then Clint’s voice, clipped, urgent. “Don’t comply. Stall. I’m pushing?—”
His channel cuts out mid-sentence.
Gone.
Silence.
My stomach drops.
The comm in my cabin clicks on again, and this time the voice is different.
Calmer.
Familiar in the way a bad memory is familiar.
Contempt dressed as professionalism.
“Jordan James,” the voice says.
My blood turns to ice.
“No,” I whisper.
The voice chuckles softly, like I’m entertaining.
“You always did overestimate your invisibility,” he says, and I canhearthe sneer in his tone, even without seeing his face.
Morazin.
Alive.
Laughing.
I grip the harness strap so hard my knuckles ache. “How?—”
“Did you think you could walk into a corridor and not light a beacon?” Morazin asks, voice mild. “You IHC people love your procedures. Your little safe rooms. Your jammer fields. It’s adorable.”
My lungs feel too small.
“You set this up,” I hiss.
“I arranged this,” he corrects, as if precision matters when people are dying. “You provided the signal. You met with the General. You confirmed you’re real and carrying exactly what I want.”
My heart pounds so hard it’s painful.
“What do you want?” I demand, even though I already know.
Morazin sighs like he’s tired of my questions. “Order, Jordan. Narrative. Control. You know—your institution’s favorite toys.”
My throat burns. “You killed people.”
A pause.
