Jaeger tensed across from Jameson at the name and the relief he felt was drowned out by suspicion.

Mikel nodded, keeping his composure, matching the commander’s contemptuous tone perfectly. “Ungrateful scum. If they worked half as hard at being useful as they do at causing trouble, maybe they’d have earned better conditions.”

The commander laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “True enough. Well, carry on, Captain. The Heart endures.”

“The Heart endures,” Mikel echoed, the traditional response falling from his lips without hesitation.

The barrier lifted, and Mikel drove forward, the vehicle passing through the final gate into the Heart itself. No one spoke until they were well clear of the checkpoint, the tension in the compartment so thick Jameson could barely breathe through it.

“That was close,” Mikel finally said, his voice tight. “You need to make this as fast as possible. They are on alert.”

“Who is Python?” Jameson asked, forcing his voice to stay steady.

So many secrets. So much information split between rings, between people. So many different agendas colliding.

“Someone I thought had left the rebellion long ago,” Jaeger answered, and Jameson almost heard sadness in his voice.

“Are you part of these plans for extracting this person?” Jameson pushed, his tone growing agitated.

Jaeger turned to face him, flipping up his faceplate to look at him. “No. And I will not be questioned by you. You’re here out of courtesy to your relationship with Kael, don’t forget that. I don’t question how you lead the rebels, and I won’t allow you to question how I lead my guild.”

Jaeger didn’t give Jameson a second to answer before he flipped his faceplate back down and turned toward Sniper, asking something Jameson couldn’t quite hear. He bit his tongue, turning his eyes back to the windshield.

The Heart unfolded before them, its opulence obscene after the industrial grimness of Cardinal. Buildings of gleaming platinum and glass reached toward the night sky, their surfaces alive with shifting holographic displays. Streets paved with actual stone rather than crumbling concrete. Trees—real trees—lining the boulevards, their branches strung with lights that sparkled like captured stars.

It was beautiful. It was hateful. It was built on the broken backs of the rings.

“I have a two-hour walking patrol,” Mikel said as they approached the Entertainment District. “I’ll park the vehicle in the designated area. You need to be back here when I return, or you’ll be on your own getting out.”

“Understood,” Jaeger replied.

The vehicle slowed as they entered a quieter side street, coming to a stop in a small lot reserved for patrol vehicles. The engine died, leaving them in silence broken only by the distant throb of music from the clubs several blocks away.

“Club Thane is three blocks east,” Mikel said, turning in his seat to face them. “The main entrance will be heavily guarded, but there’s a service entrance on the west side used by staff. They won’t think twice about a uniformed Veyra entering the premises.”

Jameson nodded, committing the instructions to memory.

“When you have her,” Mikel continued, his eyes finding Jameson despite the reflective faceplate hiding his features, “bring her straight back here the same way you came. They’ll be watching for her and all Veyra will be alerted immediately when they realize she’s gone. Getting her into the uniform will buy us time, but only a small amount.”

“Time to move,” Jaeger said on the tail of his words. He turned to the team, issuing quick, precise orders. “Breach, Sniper, secure the perimeter. Comms, monitor Veyra channels for any mention of our presence. Scout, Medic, Trace, establish exit routes in case the primary is compromised.”

He turned to Jameson last. “Ghost, you retrieve Shade. In and out. No engagement with anyone else.”

“And if I can’t avoid him?” Jameson asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“Then you do what’s necessary,” Jaeger replied. “But remember—this is an extraction, not an assassination. Your priority is Shade. Nothing else matters.”

They exited the vehicle in pairs, movements synchronized to appear as normal patrol activity to any watching eyes. Jameson followed Jaeger into the shadows between buildings, the bright lights of the Entertainment District beckoning ahead.

“Stay on comms,” Jaeger instructed as they prepared to separate. “Report in every ten minutes. If something goes wrong—”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Jameson cut him off.

Jaeger’s helmet tilted, the expressionless faceplate somehow conveying disapproval. “If something goes wrong,” he repeated, “the fallback point is the east end maintenance tunnel. We wait thirty minutes, then we go—with or without you both.”

The harsh reality of their situation settled in Jameson’s gut. They were outnumbered, in enemy territory, working with borrowed time and stolen identities. The odds of all of them making it out alive were deteriorating quickly.

“Understood,” Jameson said.

“Then go get our girl,” Jaeger replied, gripping Jameson’s shoulder briefly before melting into the shadows.

Jameson turned toward the pulsing lights of Club Thane, each step taking him closer to Shadera. The Veyra uniform felt heavier with each stride, the weight of his disguise, his mission, his fear thrumming through his blood.

He would find her. He would bring her home. And nothing in the Heart would stop him.

The club was alive. Each beat of music traveled through Shadera’s body as if searching for something to awaken. She sat at the bar, nursing her fifth drink, the alcohol dulling the flame in her veins, the awareness she had of Greyson’s eyes on her even from where he stood a few paces away. Behind her mask, she watched the elite dance and laugh and drink, their expensive clothes and ornate masks creating a sea of wealth that could drown her. No one approached her, no one dared.

The Executioner’s future bride was not to be touched, even here, in this supposed sanctuary of pleasure.

The liquor was pure here, even better than what she indulged in at Greyson’s apartment. Even their vices were superior, carefully crafted and regulated while the rings made do with whatever poisonous concoctions they could distill from industrial waste. Shadera knocked back the remainder of her glass, the burn traveling down her throat as she turned back to face the bar.

Every few seconds, her eyes swept the room, cataloging exits and entrances, counting guards, measuring distances. Habits that had kept her alive in the Boundary, now automatic as breathing. Two main exits, both heavily monitored. Four emergency doors with alarm systems. Twenty-three displayed security personnel positioned throughout the club, all in black with subtle earpieces that betrayed their purpose. Fifteen more security dressed like patrons. Six cameras visible in the main space, likely dozens more hidden.

And not a single clear path to freedom.

The bartender—a willowy woman with a simple silver mask that marked her as service class—kept her distance, approaching only when Shadera’s glass emptied. The other patrons did the same, creating a bubble of isolation around her that felt both protective and suffocating.

“Try to have a little fun.” Greyson’s voice materialized behind her as his arm swept over her shoulder and set another glass in front of her. “You look like you’re planning a massacre rather than enjoying a night out.”

She didn’t bother looking up at him. “Maybe I am.”

“Targeting anyone in particular?” There was a lightness in his tone she wasn’t used to hearing, almost teasing. He slipped to her side and leaned casually against the bar.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Shadera replied, taking the fresh drink. “But you’re definitely in the fucking running.”