Page 306 of Reaper Said Mine

I owe them every chance to survive.

Even the uncomfortable ones.

"Fine."

The room stills.

I continue before I can change my mind.

"We try."

Ursa's breath catches slightly.

That's enough.

"We expose everyone."

I point at the evidence.

"Then we see who actually wants peace."

The words feel strange, like trying on a new weapon I'm not entirely sure how to hold.

Skahar smiles, which is deeply unsettling.

Ursa's eyes shine with hope.

Somehow that's worse.

Hope is harder to dismiss than logic.v look toward the viewport one last time.vThe war still burns. The fleets still wait. The dead remain dead. Nothing about this path guarantees success.

But the future offers something beyond revenge. Maybe that's enough to begin.

CHAPTER 37

URSA

The most dangerous thing I have ever done is not getting shot at, and that realization still catches me off guard every time I think about it. I've been boarded by private mercenaries in deep space, chased corruption through active war zones where artillery fire rattled the ground beneath my feet, and carried evidence across contested systems while powerful people tried very hard to make sure I never reached my destination. I've stood face-to-face with furious politicians, crime bosses, military commanders, and executives wealthy enough to influence governments with a single conversation. Yet none of those experiences feel as dangerous as what sits on the screen in front of me now.

The danger isn't physical. It isn't a weapon, a fleet, or an assassin waiting in the shadows. It's truth—unfiltered, documented, cross-referenced, verified, and assembled into a body of evidence aimed directly at people powerful enough to reshape entire star systems. The information spread across my display represents years of hidden transactions, secret agreements, and carefully buried crimes. Looking at it feels like staring into the core of a reactor that everyone pretended wasn't overheating.

The temporary investigation center occupies what used to be a luxury conference complex near Guyver Station's diplomatic ring. The architecture still carries traces of its former purpose: polished walls, elegant lighting fixtures, and spacious meeting halls designed for trade negotiations and corporate summits. Those refinements have been overwhelmed by the reality of what the building has become. Portable servers line the walls in dense stacks, their cooling systems producing a constant mechanical hum that vibrates through the floor. Projection screens cover nearly every available surface, displaying evidence chains, financial records, and investigative timelines. Empty caf containers litter desks and workstations. Analysts sleep in chairs between shifts, wrapped in jackets or curled awkwardly beside terminals. The air smells of overheated electronics, recycled oxygen, stale caffeine, and the unmistakable scent of exhausted people pushing themselves beyond reasonable limits.

A dozen journalists work nearby, reviewing evidence packages and verification chains with intense concentration. Nobody is smiling. Nobody is celebrating. Every person in the room understands exactly what we're preparing to release and what the consequences could be. One publication has the potential to alter the political landscape of half the known galaxy. It could also get every person involved targeted by some of the most powerful interests in existence. The possibility that both outcomes might happen simultaneously hangs over the room like a storm cloud.

Rana drops into the chair beside me carrying two steaming cups of caf. The rich aroma cuts through the smell of electronics and exhaustion.

"caf."

I accept one gratefully and wrap my hands around the warmth.

"You're my favorite."

"I know."

She studies the display over my shoulder while taking a sip. Thousands of documents scroll across the screen in organized layers of evidence. Financial records connect to communications logs. Military contracts intersect with intelligence assessments. Back-channel agreements reveal shell company ownership structures and political influence operations stretching across multiple systems. The sheer scale of it is staggering. Entire networks of corruption emerge from the data like hidden constellations suddenly illuminated.

Rana lets out a low whistle.