Chapter 12
HRASK
Kronin doesn’t choose places by accident, and the moment I step into his territory, I can feel exactly why he picked this one.
The corridor hums low beneath my boots, the sound uneven and slightly off-tempo, like something in the system is running harder than it should.
The air carries that thick, stale heat that never quite dissipates, layered with the smell of burnt insulation and coolant that’s been recycled too many times to stay clean.
Overhead lights flicker at irregular intervals, casting the space into alternating bands of shadow and dull illumination, making it just difficult enough to track movement if you aren’t paying attention.
I’m paying attention.
Kronin stands where the corridor widens just enough to give him room to move, one shoulder resting against a support column as if he’s been there long enough to claim it.
The blade in his hand spins lazily between his fingers, catching the dim light in brief flashes that draw the eye without ever fully committing to the motion.
He doesn’t look surprised when I step into view.
That’s the second thing that tells me this conversation isn’t going to stay simple.
“You’ve got a habit of showing up where you’re not wanted,” he says, his voice carrying low through the corridor without effort.
I let my pace slow as I approach, my boots scraping lightly against the metal floor just enough to announce each step.
“You’ve got a habit of being where things go wrong,” I reply.
That pulls the smallest shift from him, a tightening at the corner of his mouth that disappears almost as quickly as it forms.
“Careful,” he says. “That almost sounds like an accusation.”
“Not almost,” I say, stopping a few feet from him, close enough that the space between us feels deliberate. “Depends how you answer.”
The blade stops spinning.
Kronin’s fingers curl around it, not tightening, just holding it in place as his attention settles fully on me.
“This about the border?” he asks.
“This is about Tury,” I reply.
The name hangs in the air longer than it should.
I watch his face closely, tracking every micro-adjustment, every shift in muscle or posture that might give something away. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker behind his eyes, a fraction of a second where his focus slips before snapping back into place.
“Shouldn’t be,” he says. “That situation’s already been handled.”
I take a step closer, closing the distance just enough to make him account for it.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I saw how it was handled.”
“And?” he asks.
“And it’s wrong,” I reply.
Kronin exhales slowly, pushing off the column and straightening, the blade still loose in his grip. The movement shifts the balance of the space, pulls the conversation out of casual and into something tighter, more controlled.
“You’re digging where you shouldn’t,” he says.
“Then give me a reason to stop,” I reply.
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is if you don’t want me to keep going.”
He studies me, the weight of his gaze settling heavier now, measuring, calculating.
“You don’t know what you’re stepping into,” he says.
“Then explain it,” I counter.
“That’s not my job.”
“No,” I agree, letting my voice drop slightly. “But it is your problem if I keep pushing.”
That lands.
Not enough to make him react outright, but enough to shift something behind his eyes.
“You’re getting bold,” he says.
“You’re getting evasive,” I reply.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the faint drip of something leaking deeper in the system.
“Tury got flagged,” I say, breaking it. “Unauthorized contact. Near the border.”
Kronin’s grip tightens just enough around the blade to register.
“Yeah,” he says. “He did.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because he stepped outside protocol.”
“That’s the report,” I say. “I’m asking what actually happened.”
“You’re not going to like the answer,” he says.
“Try me.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, then exhales slowly.
“He got curious,” Kronin says. “Started asking questions that didn’t have safe answers. Started talking to people he shouldn’t have been talking to.”
“Like who?” I press.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies. “What matters is he didn’t stop.”
The words settle heavier than I expect.
“Sounds familiar,” I say.
His eyes flick to mine, sharper now, something colder sliding into place.
“Yeah,” he says. “It should.”
I ignore the implication.
“What did he find?” I ask.
Kronin shakes his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“That’s not information you get to have,” he says.
“Convenient,” I reply.
“Necessary.”
“For who?” I ask.
“For everyone who doesn’t want this to spiral,” he says.
I step closer again, pushing into his space in a way that forces him to either move or hold his ground.
“They killed him,” I say.
Kronin doesn’t answer right away.
“I didn’t say that,” he replies finally.
“You didn’t deny it either.”
“That’s not my call.”
“Whose is it?” I press.
He smiles then, but there’s nothing behind it that resembles humor.
“That’s the part you’re not ready for,” he says.
The tension tightens, pulling the air thin between us.
“You were involved,” I say.
“No,” Kronin replies immediately. “I wasn’t.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to understand the difference between knowing something and doing something,” he says.
“That’s a convenient line,” I reply.
“It’s an accurate one.”
I hold his gaze, searching for the crack.
It’s there.
Not in the words.
In the restraint.
“You know who did it,” I say.
His silence confirms it.
“Why didn’t you stop it?” I ask.
That question lands differently.
It doesn’t bounce.
It sinks.
Kronin’s posture alters, not outwardly aggressive, not defensive, just… heavier.
“You think this is something you stop?” he asks quietly.
“I think someone should’ve tried,” I reply.
“And then what?” he counters, stepping closer now, matching my distance, his voice lowering. “You stop one piece, and the rest keeps moving like it was always going to. You think that changes anything?”
“It changes him,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “It would’ve.”
The admission slips through before he can stop it.
That’s enough.
“You’re deeper in this than you’re saying,” I tell him.
“And you’re deeper than you should be,” he shoots back.
“Then we’re even.”
He shakes his head once.
“No,” he says. “We’re not.”
I let the silence sit, then step back.
“This isn’t over,” I say.
“It is for him,” Kronin replies.
The words follow me out.
—
The neutral zone feels heavier when I come back through it, like the air has thickened with everything I just pulled out of that conversation. The corridors here carry sound differently, the echoes softer, more contained, but every step still feels like it travels farther than it should.
She’s already there.
Of course she is.
Jolie stands near the entrance, her posture tight, her attention snapping to me the moment I step into view. There’s something different in the way she holds herself now, something more focused, more anchored.
She’s committed.
“Talk,” she says.
No greeting.
No hesitation.
I step closer, closing the distance until we’re standing just inside each other’s space, the air between us charged in a way that has nothing to do with the environment.
“He knew,” I say.
Her expression sharpens immediately.
“Knew what?” she asks.
“That Tury was flagged,” I reply. “That he was asking questions. Talking to people he shouldn’t have been.”
Jolie sneers, her gaze locking onto mine.
“And?” she presses.
“And he didn’t stop,” I continue. “That’s what got him noticed.”
“That’s not enough to get someone killed,” she says.
“It is if what he found mattered,” I reply.
She exhales slowly, her gaze flicking downward for a second before snapping back up.
“You believe Kronin?” she asks.
“I believe he wasn’t the one who did it,” I say.
“That’s not the same thing as trusting him.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
She steps closer, closing what little distance remains, her voice dropping.
“What else?” she asks.
“He knows more than he said,” I reply. “But he’s not touching it. Whatever this is, it sits above him.”
Her expression tightens, something sharper cutting through it.
“That narrows the field,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Not in a way I like.”
Silence settles between us, but it’s not empty.
It’s active.
Turning.
“You think Tury found something specific,” she says.
“I think he got close enough to something important,” I answer.
“And that was enough to make him a problem,” she says.
“Yeah.”
We stand there, closer than we should be, neither of us stepping back.
“You’re holding something back,” she says.
I tilt my head slightly.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” she replies without hesitation.
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth.
“Maybe I just like watching you work for it,” I say.
Her eyes narrow.
“This isn’t a game.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
“Then stop acting like it,” she snaps.
I step closer, deliberately crossing the last inch of space, my voice dropping.
“You don’t like how I do things,” I say.
“I don’t like unnecessary escalation,” she fires back.
“You stepped into a blind zone alone,” I counter. “Let’s not pretend you’re cautious.”
“That was controlled,” she says.
“So is this.”
Her gaze locks onto mine, steady, unyielding.
“No,” she says. “This is you pushing.”
“And you’re not moving,” I reply.
She doesn’t.
Not even a fraction.
“Focus,” she says, her voice lower now, tighter. “We don’t have time for this.”
“I am focused,” I say. “On you.”
That lands.
I see it in the way her expression shifts, just slightly, before she locks it down again.
“That’s not helpful,” she says.
“It tells me what I need to know,” I reply.
“Which is?”
“That you don’t break,” I say.
Her lips press together, her gaze holding mine.
“No,” she says. “I don’t.”
“Good,” I reply. “Because neither do I.”
The tension spikes again, sharper now, but it holds.
“You’re insufferable,” she says.
“I’ve heard worse.”
She exhales, dragging a hand through her hair before refocusing.
“We follow his path,” she says. “Every contact, every route, every gap.”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“We don’t assume,” she adds. “We confirm.”
“Agreed.”
“And we don’t lose control,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“You’re still talking to me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then nods once.
“Then we move,” she says.
I nod back.
“Together,” I add.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Together.”
The word settles between us, heavier now.