Chapter 23 Jordan #2
He exhales, and the sound is sharp. “They put you on a watchlist. Classified you as an unstable threat actor after your broadcast.”
For a second, the room tilts. Like gravity remembers it can betray me.
“Unstable,” I repeat, and my laugh comes out ugly. “That’s rich, coming from the people who let Yatori exist.”
Clint’s jaw tightens. “They’re spinning it as radicalization. Like you’ve been compromised by Coalition influence.”
“Coalition influence,” I echo, incredulous. “I’m sitting in a crime syndicate’s luxury suite, Clint. If anything I’ve been compromised by overpriced upholstery.”
His eyes flicker, almost a smile, then vanish. “They’re not joking, Jordan.”
Neither am I.
My throat tightens. “So what does that mean? They want to arrest me?”
“They want to contain you,” he says. “And if they can’t contain you…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t have to.
My skin prickles. I can almost feel invisible eyes turning toward me through the holonet, the way they must have turned toward my parents the day Titanus Vox happened.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Clint leans closer, voice urgent. “Listen to me. You need a dead-drop. You need redundancy. You need—”
“I’m already doing it,” I cut in, and my voice goes sharper than intended.
His eyebrows lift. “You are?”
I turn my holo projection slightly so he can see the schematic hovering above my table—multiple mirrored storage nodes, encryption layers, release triggers.
“I’m building an evidence vault,” I say, words tumbling now that the dam’s cracked. “Kaijen servers, civilian cloud mirrors, offline fragments in dead storage. And a dead-drop protocol that auto-releases if my biometrics flatline.”
Clint stares, then lets out a slow breath. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “That’s where I’m at.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. That’s good. That’s smart. But Jordan—”
“What?” I snap, panic sharpening. “What now?”
He hesitates. “There’s chatter that they might try to cut a deal. If they can pin everything on you, they keep the institutions clean.”
The words hit like a slap.
I taste bile again. Like Yatori. Like blood in the back of my throat.
“So I’m the scapegoat,” I say, voice flat.
Clint’s eyes soften. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“I know,” I say, and mean it. Then, quieter: “Thank you.”
He nods once. “Just—be careful. And don’t trust anyone offering you protection all of a sudden. That’s not how these people work.”
I almost laugh again.
“Clint,” I say, “I don’t trust anyone offering protection ever.”
He holds my gaze for a beat. “Stay in touch.”
The call ends.
The room feels too quiet without his voice.
I stare at my evidence vault schematic, and my hands start moving again before my brain fully catches up—typing, coding, embedding release triggers.
I’m building my own insurance policy against being erased.
Because I can’t afford to be noble.
I can only afford to be effective.
When Lonari comes in, the air in the room changes.
It always does.
It’s not just his size—though that’s part of it, the way the doorframe seems to negotiate with his shoulders. It’s the way he moves like he owns his body completely, like pain is something he files and stores rather than something that disrupts him.
Tonight he smells like smoke and steel. And underneath—something darker. Grief, maybe. Anger held tight enough to cut.
His eyes flick to the holo projection above my table.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“My paranoia,” I say. “Want to compliment it? It’s been working out.”
He huffs once, almost amused, then crosses the room and looks up at the network map with me. Close enough that I can feel his heat, the faint rough texture of his scales when his arm brushes mine.
I don’t move away.
Not because I’m fearless. Because I’m done running from proximity like it’s poison.
“Morazin’s chain,” I say. “And something worse.”
His gaze sharpens. “Show me.”
I zoom in on the relay route, isolate the Alliance node cluster.
Lonari’s jaw tightens as he reads.
“Alliance infrastructure,” he says slowly.
“Yep,” I say. “Morazin shouldn’t have access. Which means either someone handed him the keys or someone left the door wide open.”
Lonari’s eyes flick up to mine. “And what are you thinking?”
I swallow, throat dry. “I’m thinking his arrest won’t hold.”
Silence.
Lonari doesn’t argue. That alone makes my stomach twist.
Instead, he says, quiet and lethal, “Explain.”
“IHC doesn’t want the embarrassment,” I say, voice fast now, urgency clawing. “Alliance doesn’t want to admit their relay nodes were used. Morazin is the proof of institutional rot on both sides. So if they can make him disappear—quietly, officially—they will.”
Lonari’s claws flex once, a small sound against the table’s edge.
“And you?” he asks.
I laugh, sharp. “Oh, I’m the perfect villain. Unstable threat actor. Human contractor turned terrorist. Broadcast sensitive data. ‘Compromised by Coalition influence.’”
His eyes narrow. “Who said that?”
“Clint,” I say. “IHC security flagged me.”
Something in Lonari’s expression shifts—anger, but controlled. Like he’s locking it behind a door.
“They will come for you,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I built this.” I gesture to the evidence vault. “They can kill me, but they can’t kill the data.”
Lonari stares at the holograms for a long moment. Then he looks at me.
“What do you want, Jordan?” he asks, and his voice is so steady it feels like a hand on my spine.
I inhale. The air smells like him—smoke, metal, and something unnameable that makes my chest ache.
“I don’t want to run,” I say.
His brows lift slightly, like he expected that and still respects hearing it.
“I want to force a public hearing,” I continue, voice firmer. “With Morazin alive. On record. No quiet executions. No ‘transfer accidents.’ I want him to talk where they can’t pretend they didn’t hear.”
Lonari studies me. “That’s ambitious.”
“Yeah,” I say, a little bitter. “So is surviving in a galaxy that keeps trying to bury the truth.”
He’s quiet.
Then he says, almost softly, “I ordered an extraction plan tonight.”
I blink. “You what?”
“Morazin,” he says. “Before official authorities can make him disappear.”
Relief punches through me so hard it almost feels like pain.
I exhale shakily. “Okay. Good. That’s—good.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “You and I are thinking the same direction.”
“Terrifying,” I murmur.
He gives the smallest hint of a smile. “Efficient.”
My compad buzzes again before I can respond.
A new message pings—unfamiliar header, formal formatting.
REQUEST FOR PRIVATE MEETING — COALITION PROTECTORATE LIAISON
SUBJECT: OFFER OF PROTECTION AND SAFE RELOCATION
LOCATION: OFF-SITE SUITE — NEUTRAL TERRITORY
TIME: IMMEDIATE
My blood turns to ice.
Lonari sees my face shift. “What?”
I turn the compad so he can see.
He reads it, and the temperature in the room drops another ten degrees.
“Coalition official,” I whisper.
“On Gur,” Lonari says, voice flat.
“To offer protection,” I finish, and my laugh comes out tight and humorless. “How generous.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “You think it’s a trap.”
“I don’t think,” I say, voice low. “I know.”
Because protection doesn’t arrive like this. Not in my life. Not in anyone’s who understands power.
Protection is a leash with a velvet ribbon on it.
And I am done wearing leashes.
I look up at Lonari, heart hammering. “They want me out of the Nun.”
Lonari’s jaw tightens. “They want you isolated.”
“Yeah,” I say. “So they can either hand me to someone… or make me disappear clean.”
Lonari’s voice turns rough. “We don’t go.”
I nod once. “No. We don’t.”
But even as I say it, I can feel the trap’s edges—the way refusing might trigger something else, the way accepting might be the only way to learn who’s pulling the string.
My fingers tighten around my compad.
I meet Lonari’s gaze and the words come out before I can overthink them.
“We can use it,” I say. “We can make them show their hand.”
His eyes flare with warning. “Jordan—”
“I’m not going alone,” I add immediately. “I’m not being brave-stupid. I’m being… tactical.”
He watches me for a long beat, and I can feel him weighing risk like a weapon.
Then he says, slow, “You want to force a public hearing. You want Morazin alive. You want the truth out where they can’t bury it.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And this invitation is a thread,” he says.
“Exactly,” I whisper.
Lonari’s gaze sharpens like a blade being honed. “Then we pull the thread. Carefully.”
My pulse kicks. Fear and adrenaline and something like grim satisfaction mix in my veins.
I look back at the evidence vault hovering above my table—the dead-drop protocol waiting patiently like a loaded gun.
I send one more backup shard into the cloud mirror.
Then I lock my compad.
And I say, quietly, to the room, to the universe, to whoever thinks I’m easy to trade:
“Try.”