Chapter 3 Jace
Chapter Three: Jace
The Tribunal chamber is colder than the autopsy suite in the Foundry, and twice as silent. They keep the lights at maximum, just to try make me uncomfortable. I stand at attention on the black rubber mat, hands visible, chin level, the way they taught us to do before breaking bone.
Five of them today. The panel sits elevated behind a slab of smart-glass, expressions set to default: neutral, impassive, not quite human.
Their uniforms are dark, cut from the same fabric but in five different ways—each a signifier, each a warning to those who can read the subtext. I can. I always could.
Abernathy is the one who starts. Acquisitions Director, but also the man who signed off on the last three asset reclamations.
He’s got a lanky build—narrow shoulders, thin wrists, hands that belong in latex.
Thinning hair, eyes that blink slower than normal.
The records say he’s fifty-seven, but the set of his jaw makes him older.
He begins with a statement of fact. “You are Jace Harrison, ID 1013-84, Reaper-class executioner, division of Erasure.”
My mouth says yes.
He doesn’t look up from his tablet. “Last night you were assigned to auction security at the Acquisitions facility. This was a routine protection detail, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You completed your assigned task at twenty-one hundred hours, confirmed by four separate systems. At twenty-one thirteen, you executed an override and assumed personal custody of asset number four-three-seven, Elliot Rowe, against explicit standing orders. Explain this action.”
I don’t move. They don’t want a real explanation. They want compliance, or a reason to push the button. I recite the line: “I believed the asset would be beneficial to the Ministry of Enforcement.”
He looks up, the way you look at a rabid dog behind a fence. “Your belief does not supersede protocol.”
“Understood.”
“You had no standing directive to interfere with the auction. Your role was security, not procurement. Yet you assumed personal custody, removed the asset from official transfer, and returned to your domicile without reporting.” He lets that hang, eyes flitting to the rest of the Board.
“There is no provision for this action under any subsection of the current operational guidelines.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He wants a reaction. They always do.
Another Board member speaks, her voice sharp and chemical.
“Asset four-three-seven is classified as property of The Silent. Your override preempts the interests of three Acquisition Houses and the Ministry itself. This is not a disciplinary matter. It’s a breach of trust.” She says the word trust like a curse.
Abernathy folds his hands. “Do you contest the facts as presented?”
“No.”
He sighs. “Then the only remaining question is whether to recommend immediate reconditioning or termination.”
The chamber’s silence thickens. I hear the faint tick of the digital clock overhead, counting up, not down. They want to see if I twitch, sweat, beg. I do none of these.
“Reaper Harrison,” Abernathy says, drawing out my title like it matters. “Do you have anything to offer in your own defense?”
A memory surfaces—the weight of Elliot’s hand in mine, the fine tremor in his bones, the color of his skin under the auction lights. None of these are facts. They are not admissible.
“No,” I say.
The Board exchanges looks. I know these faces. They want to do it clean, no drama. But Abernathy wants to enjoy it.
He leans forward, index finger tracing a line down his tablet.
“This is not the first irregularity on your record. You have a history of over-compliance, but no previous insubordination. Your output metrics are in the ninety-ninth percentile, and you have never failed a reconditioning audit. Do you wish to undergo another round?”
“No.”
He waits, expecting me to add more. I do not.
He taps the glass, opening a new file. “The Board will confer. Stand by.”
The room dims as they mute the comms, audio in their favor only.
I watch their mouths move, the choreography of committee politics.
Two favor my termination, one is undecided, Abernathy is pushing for reconditioning, and the woman from before wants to “set an example.” I could guess which, but it doesn’t matter.
After ninety seconds, they unmute.
But before Abernathy can speak, the door to the left slides open, and my brother walks in.
He’s dressed in Ministry black, gloves on, sleeves crisp, the lines of his coat pressed to knife-sharpness. His hair is a little longer than regulation, and he walks with a limp you wouldn’t notice unless you knew to look for it.
He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t even pause. He moves to my side, then past me, and addresses the Board as if it’s his living room.
“Apologies for the interruption,” he says. “My clearance was delayed at the front desk.”
Abernathy looks like someone just pissed on his shoes. “This is a closed session, Co-Director Harrison.”
Jagger’s smile is small and sharp. “Which is why I’m here.”
The Board shifts, uneasy. Jagger is Ministry of Design, higher on the hierarchy but not usually involved in wet work or its aftermath. He stands with his hands behind his back, shoulders relaxed, every inch of him designed to project boredom.
He flicks a glance at me. “My brother is being considered for reconditioning or termination, yes?”
“Your brother broke protocol,” Abernathy says. “He undermined the Ministry’s chain of custody.”
Jagger holds up a hand. “He did, but only because he was executing an enforcement directive that supercedes your acquisition protocols.”
A pause.
“I have seen no such directive on record,” Abernathy says, voice tight.
“You wouldn’t,” Jagger says. “It’s classified above your clearance. Issued direct from the Director of Enforcement, and relayed through the family line as a test of loyalty.” He says it like it’s gospel.
The woman from before raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying your brother’s actions were… sanctioned?”
Jagger nods, slow and condescending. “It was an internal audit. To identify weaknesses in the asset transfer process.” He turns to me, smile twisting. “I’m sure my brother didn’t expect to be so… efficient.”
Abernathy’s jaw flexes. “You’re making this up.”
Jagger shrugs. “Check with Enforcement. Or don’t. It’s all above your grade.”
The Board is silent. Even the clock stops feeling important.
Jagger faces Abernathy, head tilted. “Anything else?”
Abernathy stares, then closes his file. “We will verify your story. In the interim, the Tribunal grants seventy-two hours reprieve to both Harrisons. Should your statement be false, you’ll both face review.”
Jagger bows, the smallest motion, then turns and gestures for me to follow.
We exit in silence, the glass doors sealing behind us. Jagger waits until the first corner, then leans in, voice barely audible.
“Seventy-two hours,” he says. “That’s all I could buy you. Better figure out how to get your Director on board with your mistake.”
He keeps walking.
The walk from Tribunal to apartment takes thirty-four minutes. I count each step, each minute shaved off by cutting corners or breaking stride on the up-ramp. My body wants to move faster, but I force it into measured, predictable rhythms. Anything else would look like panic.
I reach the building, key in, climb three flights. I scan the hall before opening the door. All clear.
Inside, it’s colder than when I left. The air system kicks in at intervals, but I keep it on the edge of tolerable. The cold slows down bacteria, keeps the living from getting too comfortable.
I expect Elliot to have moved—maybe to the bedroom, maybe to the bathroom, maybe out the window, even though the window doesn’t open. But he’s exactly where I left him.
He’s curled in the left corner of the living room, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. He’s wearing the same shirt and pants from the night before. The bruising on his throat is darker now, yellow-purple beneath the skin. His hair is matted, eyes open and fixed to the wall, but not seeing anything.
He doesn’t track me as I enter. Doesn’t flinch at the door, or the sound of the bag hitting the table.
I walk to the kitchen, open the fridge, close it. I open a water bottle and leave it on the counter. I peel off my jacket, hang it, kick off my boots. Everything is done in the same sequence as always. He notices. I see his eyes flick to the boots, then back to the wall.
He doesn’t move until I’m three meters away. Then, he jerks backward, hits his head on the plaster. His hand goes to his mouth, fingers pressing so hard the knuckles turn white.
I freeze. Not out of surprise, but because sudden movement is a bad idea.
He bites his lip. Hard. Blood beads at the corner, then runs down. The smell is sharp, coppery. I feel it in the back of my throat, the way you do after a broken nose.
He’s waiting for something. A hit, a shout, maybe the knife. I do nothing.
“Bathroom is open,” I say. My voice comes out gravel. “So is the bedroom.”
He looks at me, not through me, for the first time. There’s calculation there, but not hope. Just trying to predict the next event.
“You can shower,” I add. “There’s clothes in the dresser.”
He nods but doesn’t move, blood dripping onto his wrist.
I back away. Slow, the way you retreat from a wild dog.
Sitting at the table, I open my laptop, bring up the Tribunal’s interface.
The files are still locked, but I know the logs are being updated in real time.
I watch the red indicator at the top right of the screen, waiting for it to turn yellow or green.
Seventy-two hours. It’s already down to seventy.
How am I going to get the Director to agree?
I type notes on the day, log the security protocols, update my own status. Every six minutes, I look up. Elliot hasn’t moved.
After an hour, I get up, walk to the hallway, and lean against the frame. I listen for breathing. It’s there, fast and shallow.