The moment I see the transfer confirmation, I already know what I’m going to do, and I hate that the decision comes that quickly, without deliberation, without strategy, without the careful layering I built everything else on. The projection hangs in front of me, cold and precise, lines of data resolving into a single, unavoidable truth, and the numbers don’t lie this time, not like they did before.
Baronet Kleid Lorens.
Debt status: resolved.
Verified through Combine financial channels.
Clean.
Legitimate.
Binding.
My claw taps once against the edge of the console, a slow, deliberate motion that does nothing to dissipate the pressure building under my skin, because this isn’t a problem I can dismantle with leverage or force. This is structure, and structure does not bend without consequence.
Behind me, the bridge is quieter than usual, not silent, but restrained, the crew moving carefully, voices lower, as if the weight of the information has already settled over them. Theyknow. Of course they know. Information like this doesn’t stay contained.
“Say it,” Vihl mutters from my right, his voice low but edged, arms crossed so tightly across his chest that the muscles in his shoulders strain against the motion. “You’ve been staring at that long enough.”
“I’m confirming it,” I reply, though we both know I already have.
“You don’t need to confirm it,” he says, pushing off the console with a sharp movement, boots scraping lightly against the metal floor as he steps closer. “You need to decide.”
I flick the projection wider, expanding the verification chain, tracing the transaction through Combine-backed accounts, layered and reinforced in a way that makes reversal impossible without escalation far beyond what this should warrant.
“He paid through proxies,” I say, my voice flat. “Three layers of separation. Combine-backed credit lines. He bought legitimacy.”
Vihl lets out a low breath that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t quite make it. “Of course he did,” he mutters, running a hand across the back of his neck. “Weak men always pay someone stronger to make them look like they’re not.”
“That isn’t relevant,” I say.
“It is if you’re thinking about ignoring it,” he shoots back immediately.
I don’t answer him right away, because the answer is already there, sitting under everything else, sharp and unavoidable.
He watches me, and I can feel the shift in him when he realizes it.
“No,” Vihl says, quieter now, but more intense. “Don’t do that.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” I reply.
“You’re about to,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping further, forcing the words into a space where they don’t carry beyond us. “And I need you to understand exactly what that means before you open your mouth.”
I turn my head just enough to look at him directly, and the tension in his expression tells me he already knows what I’m going to say.
“The contract resolves,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees immediately, like he’s trying to anchor me to it. “It resolves.”
“And the marker?—”
“Returns,” he cuts in, sharper now. “That’s how this works. That’s how it always works.”
I let the words settle between us, not because I need to consider them, but because I need him to hear what comes next clearly.
“No,” I say.
The word lands heavier than I intend, not loud, but absolute.
