Chapter 6
LONARI
Gur smells like money that’s been handled too many times.
It hits you the second the shuttle’s seal breaks and the outside air slithers in—hot, oily, laced with exhaust and spice and the faint metallic tang of industry grinding away in the distance.
There’s a sweetness underneath it too, the perfume of whatever’s being pumped through the city vents to make people forget they’re breathing in toxins.
It’s a liar’s air. Familiar as a bruise you keep pressing.
The Defrocked Nun rises ahead of us like someone built a cathedral for sin and then decided to add a casino on top just to be funny.
Curved architecture plated in polished alloys, neon filigree that crawls along the outer ribs like veins of electric color, and a rotating holo-saint above the main entrance—wings spread, face serene, hands posed in blessing while the building underneath eats credits and souls with equal appetite.
I haven’t seen it in five years.
Five years of dust and ration stink and silence, of bodies dropping in the wilderness and the constant hum of the containment field threading into my bones. Five years of telling myself I didn’t miss this place. That I didn’t miss anything.
Then I step out of the shuttle and my chest tightens like the air has hands.
Jordan comes down the ramp behind me, blinking against the glare, her face drawn tight with exhaustion and adrenaline that never fully drains.
She clutches her bag like it’s the last thing between her and being swallowed whole, and she keeps looking around like she expects a sniper on every balcony.
Which… fair.
“Is it always this loud?” she asks, voice pitched low.
The Nun’s entrance plaza is a symphony of life: engines whining, people shouting, music pulsing from hidden speakers like a heartbeat, laughter spilling out of open doors.
Holo-ads flicker over the crowds—women with glittering skin promising luck, men with sharp smiles promising revenge, everything for sale and everybody pretending they’re not desperate.
“It’s quiet compared to some nights,” I tell her.
She stares at me like I’m insane. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” I say. “I’m just used to worse.”
She exhales through her nose. “You need therapy.”
I glance down at her. “You gonna bill me?”
Her mouth twitches, and the flicker of humor looks strange on her face right now, like a crack in stone.
We start walking.
The guards see me within three steps.
They’re posted at the plaza’s edges, dressed in tailored black with Kaijen insignia stitched subtle at the collar, weapons slung casual but ready. They look like they stepped out of a crime holo—sharp suits, sharper eyes, the kind of men who smile while they ruin you.
The first one freezes.
His gaze slides over me like he’s trying to decide if I’m a ghost or a threat.
Then his hand moves toward his comm.
I don’t slow down.
The second guard’s jaw drops.
“Holy—” he starts.
“Don’t,” I say, voice calm, like I’m talking to a dog that needs to remember who owns the leash. “You’ll embarrass yourself.”
He shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click.
By the time we hit the main doors, the plaza has shifted. Word moves in a place like this faster than light. Heads turn. Bodies angle away. Murmurs ripple like water disturbed by something big swimming underneath.
Jordan leans closer to me, her voice barely audible over the music and crowd noise. “They’re staring.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Try not to wave.”
“I’m not waving,” she hisses.
“You’re doing that thing with your hands,” I tell her without looking.
“What thing?”
“The ‘I’m trying to look normal’ thing,” I say. “It’s cute.”
She makes a sound that could be a laugh or a growl. “Shut up.”
The main doors open automatically as we approach, recognizing my gait and my biometrics before anyone inside has the courage to decide whether to stop me.
Warm air rolls out—perfume, sweat, alcohol, cooked meat, and a faint underlying chemical note from the air scrubbers fighting to keep the place breathable.
The light inside is golden and soft, designed to flatter every face and make the world feel safer than it is.
The carpet underfoot is thick enough to muffle footsteps, patterned in swirling reds and blacks like spilled wine.
I step into the Nun and the sound hits me full force.
Music. Laughter. Slot machines chiming. Cards snapping on felt. Dealers calling numbers like prayers.
And layered beneath it all, the subtle click of weapons shifting as security notices me.
The nearest blackjack table goes quiet.
A Fratvoyan dealer—small, furred, grinning too wide—drops his cards mid-shuffle. They scatter across the felt.
He stares up at me, eyes round.
“Boss?” he squeaks.
I keep walking.
A pair of Kaijen enforcers near the bar stop mid-conversation. One actually crosses himself like he’s seen a Reaper. The other looks like he’s about to pull a gun and then remembers who he’s pointing it at.
Jordan’s pace falters for half a step, and I feel it beside me like a shift in gravity.
“This is your family?” she whispers.
“It’s my business,” I correct.
“That’s not a no.”
I glance at her. “Stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. She tightens her grip on her bag.
We reach the central floor—an open expanse of tables and holo-screens, a raised stage where someone is singing a sweet, slow song about heartbreak while a thousand people pretend they’ve never had any.
Above it all, the Nun’s ceiling arches high, stained-glass projections scrolling across it like moving paintings—saints drinking, angels gambling, devils smiling.
Jordan stares up despite herself.
“It’s… absurd,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s the point. If it looks like a joke, people forget it’s a trap.”
She looks at me sharply. “Are you saying I’m in a trap right now?”
I stop walking, just long enough that she has to stop too, and I turn my head toward her.
The noise of the casino rolls around us, but in that moment there’s a pocket of quiet in my chest, a space carved out by necessity.
“You’re under my protection,” I say, voice steady. “That means if anyone touches you without my permission, they lose the hand. If they try twice, they lose the head.”
Jordan’s eyes widen slightly.
“That’s not reassuring,” she whispers, but her voice trembles in a way that tells me she’s not fully rejecting it either.
“It’s not supposed to be reassuring,” I reply. “It’s supposed to be clear.”
A captain in a charcoal suit pushes through the crowd toward us, moving fast, face tight with alarm.
“Boss—” he starts, then catches himself, swallowing hard. “Lonari.”
I let the name hang between us like a knife laid on a table.
“Renn,” I say, recognizing him. He’s older—lines around the eyes now, hair threaded with silver. But the posture is the same: loyal, tense, ready to bleed if ordered.
His gaze flicks to Jordan.
“And…?”
“Jordan,” I say. “She’s with me.”
Renn’s brows lift. “With you how?”
I step half a pace closer to Jordan, just enough that my shadow cuts across her.
“Under my protection,” I repeat.
Renn nods slowly, but suspicion doesn’t leave his face. “The Godfather—”
“I’m going to see him,” I say.
Renn’s throat bobs. “Now?”
“Now,” I confirm.
Renn glances around as if expecting assassins to drop from the ceiling. “They said you were dead.”
“I’m aware,” I say dryly. “People love telling stories when I’m not around to correct them.”
Jordan’s eyes flick between us. “They told people you were dead?”
I don’t look at her. “Later.”
Renn gestures toward a side corridor lined with velvet curtains and discreet security panels. “This way.”
As we move, security closes in—not on me, but around us, a subtle tightening of formation. Kaijen men in suits with concealed weapons. Women too, sharp-eyed and harder than the men. They watch Jordan like she’s a bomb someone carried in as a joke.
Jordan leans toward me again, voice tight. “They all look like they want to kill me.”
“They all look like they want to know if you’re worth killing,” I correct.
“That’s… worse.”
“No,” I say. “Worse is when they’ve already decided.”
We pass through a set of doors that require a palm scan and a spoken code phrase. Renn says the phrase in Grolgath dialect—old, formal, but with a street twist that makes it sound like he learned it in alleyways, not temples. The doors open into a quieter, richer corridor.
The air smells different here—less smoke, more polished wood and expensive oils. The carpet is thicker. The lighting is dimmer. The walls are lined with framed holo-portraits of Kaijen leaders, old and new, their eyes following you like judgment.
Jordan slows, staring at one portrait in particular: a massive Grolgath with scarred scales and a grin that looks like it knows secrets.
“That’s…” she starts.
“Don’t,” I say.
She shuts her mouth, but I see her swallow.
We reach the Godfather’s doors.
Two guards stand there, suits immaculate, weapons visible now because this is the inner circle and nobody pretends. Their eyes widen when they see me, then narrow as if they’re trying to read the angle.
One steps forward. “Lonari Kaijen.”
I nod once. “Open.”
He hesitates. “The Godfather—”
“Open,” I repeat, and my voice doesn’t rise, but something inside it does.
The guard swallows and presses his palm to the panel.
The doors slide open.
Warm air spills out—spiced tea, incense, and the faint sterile scent of life-support systems. The room beyond is half office, half throne room: heavy furniture, dark wood, low lighting, holographic screens floating near the ceiling displaying financial dashboards, territory maps, shipping lanes.
And in the center, seated behind a broad desk, is Godfather Kel.
Except… it’s Kel the way a statue is a person.