Chapter 34 Roxy
ROXY
Syfer’s sky always looks like it’s on the verge of a riot.
Red-orange clouds churn over the city’s upper decks, shot through with purples too electric to be natural. There’s a tremor in the ground when we disembark—just the usual hum of infrastructure, but after Kaerva, my nerves register it as warning.
Vrok keeps a hand close to his belt, not on a weapon, but near enough to remind anyone watching that he could clear ten feet in two strides and leave nothing but teeth behind.
He doesn’t say anything as we descend the shuttle ramp.
He doesn’t need to. The bond between us pulses warm and low—not insistent, just present.
Calibrated. It’s still new, still adjusting, but no longer volatile.
It doesn’t surge when I glance his way. It steadies.
I breathe deeper than I have in days.
Don Gnotz is already waiting by the edge of the hangar, flanked by two of his skinnier cousins, each of them dressed like a bad debt in human form.
Gnotz himself looks worse than usual—eyes bloodshot, throat ringed with a fresh layer of gold, mouth pursed like he's chewing sour rot.
He nods once and gestures us forward like this is a family dinner and not a tactical briefing laced with power moves.
Vrok steps slightly behind me when we walk up.
Subtle.
Intentional.
It makes Gnotz’s nostrils flare.
“Welcome back,” he says, oily-smooth. “No parade, but you made enough noise on Kaerva that the flags are metaphorical.”
I don’t smile.
“Where’s the sitrep?”
“Eager. That’s new.” He half-turns and gestures toward the lift. “Debrief upstairs. You’ll want it all at once.”
The ride up is silent except for the creak of the lift and the buzz of a neon sign flickering halfway through a vulgar slang for “muscle” in three languages. Syfer doesn’t bother to clean up its image anymore. It sells itself as the place where everything’s negotiable. Truth, loyalty, blood.
We step into the war room—low ceiling, long table, and a wall of projected maps showing economic traffic, syndicate movement, and a few blood-red tags that make my stomach tighten.
Gnotz doesn’t sit. He taps a node on the table and brings up a digital overlay. Marj’s territory, shrinking. Some outposts dark. Others repainted under new logos, same structure underneath.
“She pulled out,” Gnotz says. “Visibly. Loudly. Like she meant it. But she left the skeleton intact. Communication dead zones in old outposts. Reduced personnel. Resource shifts into black route logistics.”
“She’s going underground,” I murmur.
“She never left,” Vrok says beside me.
Gnotz nods. “She repositioned. Consolidated. Maybe lost a few ego-driven limbs, but the brain’s intact. She’s running leaner now. And angrier.”
I cross my arms and stare at the map.
“And?”
“And,” Gnotz drawls, “that leaves a gap.”
He looks between us, then to Vrok specifically.
“The Butcher came back from the dead. People noticed. Syndicates don’t have long memories, but they respect ghost stories—especially ones that spill blood. Yours, in particular, hit just the right note of poetic.”
“I’m not interested in legacy,” Vrok says flatly.
“Didn’t say you were,” Gnotz says. “But you both made a myth. Might as well profit from it.”
He flicks the node again, and a contract projection blossoms across the table.
“Joint bounty operations. Intel requisitions. Tactical hits. Asset reclamation. With your clearance and her profile, you’d clear mid-six figures per run. More, if you let us license the image.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Gnotz doesn’t blink. “Knew that’d be a no. Just seeing how fast you’d say it.”
I step closer to the table, voice even. “If this is a partnership, it doesn’t run on borrowed names. We’re not mascots. We’re not sabers to rattle. And we don’t run on your timetable.”
Gnotz gives a little smile. “You came in hot.”
“I'm still cooling off,” I say. “So here’s the deal.”
I swipe the contract aside and open a blank slate on the interface. My fingers move fast. I’m not guessing—I’ve been drafting this in my head since the shuttle left orbit.
“We work as a unit. Equal say. Joint op veto rights. Location override authority. No separation clauses without mutual agreement. Mission vetoes on the table, including kill or no-kill protocols.”
Gnotz starts to interrupt, but I don’t slow.
“We don’t report to you directly. We report to mission control. Autonomy in strategy. Asset shares divided based on contribution, not name weight. And we both get hard exit options if the game shifts and we need out clean.”
I finish typing and hit the lock.
The room’s quiet for a second.
Vrok doesn’t say a word.
He doesn’t have to.
He’s watching me with a stillness that hums like power.
Gnotz’s face doesn’t twitch. But his fingers tighten on the edge of the table.
“Bold,” he says. “Especially for someone who used to be a contract asset yourself.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I know the terms you offer to grunts. I’m not one anymore.”
He circles the table slowly, gaze sliding between the two of us.
“You think you’re ready to be the face of a restructured order?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not the face. I’m the terms. If you want the legend, it comes with leverage.”
Gnotz studies me. “You’re making enemies with this posture.”
“Let them line up.”
The silence stretches. Then—
He taps the lock with two fingers.
Approved.
Just like that.
“Fine,” he says. “You want to make waves, make waves. But don’t forget—currents pull both ways.”
“Then we swim,” I say.
Vrok finally speaks. “We’ll send our asset filters tonight. Loadout requests by morning. If you short us, we walk.”
Gnotz bows low, sarcastic but not hostile. “Welcome to the table.”
We turn and leave without another word. My heart’s still pounding, but not from fear. From presence. From knowing I didn’t flinch. From knowing he saw me.
Not as Vrok’s human.
Not as the Butcher’s handler.
But as a player.
An equal.
Vrok falls into step beside me in the corridor, quiet for a beat.
Then, “You didn’t just hold your own. You led.”
I glance at him sideways, a smirk tugging at my lips.
“Get used to it.”
He hums low. “Already am.”