Chapter 2
JAV
The chair’s too small.
It creaks under me like it’s got opinions about my size—and the chain-linked cuffs across my wrists ain’t helping.
My tail’s jammed behind the damn seat, half-numb.
I shift just enough to keep the blood flowing, then still again.
The tech across from me watches like she’s cataloging every twitch.
Her fingers dance over the lie detector console like she’s playing a song no one else can hear.
She wants me to squirm.
Cute.
“Please state your name for the record,” she says, voice smooth and practiced.
“Jav Kuraken.” I keep my tone even. Not too deep. Don’t want it setting off the ‘aggression filters.’ Never mind that the system’s just performative bull. None of this is real.
“You are aware that lying during this session will be considered obstruction of justice under Alliance Code 17.4A?”
“I’m aware,” I say. Then I smile. Just a little. Just enough tooth to make her shift in her seat. “I’m also aware this whole setup’s got more theater than the Vendrax opera house.”
Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t take the bait.
The room smells like sterilized nerves—cold metal, recycled air, and a whiff of antiseptic meant to make people think the law is clean. It ain’t. Never has been.
“Proceeding with questioning,” she says, tapping her pad.
The cuffs buzz faintly, syncing to the console. Pulse, body temp, breath pattern. The basics. No mind probes. They don’t work on grolgaths. Neural resilience or some krakka like that. All this gear’s for show.
The real deal is what’s happening behind the glass, in the dark-paneled observation room where a dozen Alliance commanders and political lapdogs are watching me with hawk-eyes, waiting to see if the boogeyman still growls.
They don’t want justice.
They want an excuse.
"During your tenure with the Kuraken family business, were you aware of any illicit trade in banned biotech?"
“Nope.”
Green light.
“Did you order the removal of Vashtal Isk when he was suspected of turning informant?”
“Nope.”
Yellow flicker. Uncertain, but not enough to trip the wire.
“Were you present the day Isk was found dead in his hoverpod on Driftspan?”
“Yes.”
Red pulse.
Truth.
“Did you kill him?”
I breathe out slow. Calm. Collected. Then I say:
“I think he committed suicide.”
The light flashes green.
And the room behind the glass? Silent.
They don’t get it. They never did.
Isk did commit suicide—he just didn’t know it when he opened his mouth to the Alliance. You don’t betray the family and expect to walk away whole. I didn’t have to order it. The rules were older than me. He chose the ending when he picked his side.
“That’s all I needed,” the tech says, voice clipped.
The cuffs disengage. My wrists ache from the pressure, but I don’t rub ’em. I stand slow, letting my tail uncoil. Stretch my shoulders. I know what this means.
This wasn’t a trial. It was a clearance.
They’re letting me out.
Not because they believe I’m clean—but because the political winds are shifting, and having me outside destabilizes the Kuraken legacy more than keeping me caged. Let me shake the tree. Let me make them paranoid. I’m the pressure valve and the warning siren, both.
It’s war without bullets. Manipulation dressed in law.
The double doors hiss open.
Outside, standing with his arms crossed and his gut hanging proudly over a belt that’s seen better days, is Garkin.
“Look who got a gold star for behavior,” he mutters, tossing me my coat.
I catch it one-handed. Leather, dark red, lined in synth fur. My favorite. Still smells faintly like ozone and blood and the spice incense Kairo used to burn when she was writing.
My chest tightens.
“How’s the tail?” Garkin asks as we walk.
“Still attached.”
“Can’t say the same for half the family. They’re eating each other out there. Dregger took the clubs. Riehl’s sniffing around the docks. Everybody wants a piece.”
I grunt. “Let them squabble.”
He stops. Looks at me sidelong. “You don’t care?”
I don’t answer. Just shrug the coat on. The weight of it settles across my shoulders like a challenge.
“Alright,” he mutters. “What do you care about then?”
I stop walking. The hallway’s empty, a long stretch of polished floor and harsh light. I meet his eyes—hard, flat, unwavering.
“I want to find her.”
Garkin goes quiet. He doesn’t need me to say the name.
“You think she’s still on Haven-7?”
“If she had any sense, she got out years ago.”
He snorts. “You’re not exactly comforting, boss.”
“She’s not like the rest of them. Never was. She walked into our club with a fake ID and eyes like green flame, talked her way past three guards, and tried to plant a mic under my damn chair.”
Garkin smirks. “Romantic.”
“She made me laugh,” I say, quieter now. “I hadn’t laughed in years.”
We walk a few more steps. My boots echo. Garkin’s make more of a thunk.
“What if she doesn’t want to see you?” he asks, not unkind.
“She will.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
I stop at the airlift door. My hand hovers over the panel.
“I don’t just want her back, Gark,” I say, and the words come out rougher than I mean. “If she had a kid—if—I want to know.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: “You think she did?”
I shake my head slowly. “She looked different, right before the raid. Softer. Guarded. She wouldn’t say. I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“You think the kid’s yours?”
“I don’t know,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to. “But if there’s even a chance…”
I trail off.
Garkin watches me for a beat, then exhales.
“You’re serious.”
“I always am.”
“Boss…”
I turn to him. “What.”
He lifts both hands. “Nothin’. Just…” He looks me over. “You’ve been out of the world five years. She could be with someone. Might’ve told that kid someone else is dad. You go storming in, claws bared, it could get messy.”
I tilt my head. “You worried I’ll mess up?”
“I’m worried you’ll care.”
I smile then. Full teeth. No menace.
“I already do.”