Page 170 of Reaper Said Mine

In the feed, Ursa’s fingers tighten around her compad, but she does not step back. “Such as?”

“Coercion gone wrong. Reaper possessiveness. Psychological deterioration under stress. A tragic accident during illegal access to restricted station files. Perhaps even a panicked act by someone inside Guyver Station who feared what you might publish next.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I am paid to think thoroughly.”

“You’re paid to make other people’s crimes sound like weather.”

His smile fades at the edges. “Let me help you. Retract the speculative portions of your report. Release a clarification emphasizing uncertainty. Return to Earth space under IHC protection. This can still become a story about a brave young journalist who stepped back from danger before she became another casualty of Reaper chaos.”

The words brave young journalist make something ancient and cruel rise in me.

Ursa smiles then.

It is small, sharp, and hers.

“You practiced that.”

“I am offering you a way out.”

“No, you’re offering me a coffin with good lighting.”

Zune’s face goes still.

Ursa steps closer to her holo pickup. “Here’s what happens now. I save this conversation to independent escrow, attach it to a sealed affidavit, and continue investigating every shell company, debt transfer, and supply contract tied to Helios-controlled assets. If I am removed, discredited, detained, or conveniently harmed, this recording becomes my obituary and your introduction.”

Zune says nothing for several seconds.

Then he laughs softly. “You think a recording saves you?”

“No. I think it makes hurting me expensive.”

His eyes flick briefly toward something off-frame. When he looks back, the paternal mask has thinned enough to show the man beneath it. “Expense is relative, Ms. Ramone.”

The feed cuts from his side.

The catwalk falls silent except for docking machinery and my own breathing.

Vakka lowers her carbine. “Lord.”

I am already moving.

Skahar does not try to stop me this time.

The station blurs into sound and heat as I leave the docking bay. My boots strike deck plating hard enough to make passing workers jump from my path. Red warning lamps pulse along the corridor because Vakka, clever and vicious creature that she is, has already locked Zune’s party into restricted guest routing under the pretense of security review. Voices crackle over my comm. Guards reposition. Doors seal. Somewhere, Ursa is likely cursing because she knows exactly what I am about to do and exactly how little chance she has of stopping me at this distance.

She calls anyway.

“Gnash.”

Her voice hits my comm as I enter the lift.

I answer without slowing. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”