Kelli pushes her hair back, her hand trembling.
"You trust this contact?" she demands.
Silpha’s mouth twists.
"About as much as I trust anyone in this hellhole," she says. "But the freighter’s real. Saw it with my own eyes."
I study her.
The tension in her shoulders.
The flicker of real fear she can't quite hide.
She's not selling a dream.
She's selling the only shot we've got.
I look at Kelli.
She’s pale, lips tight, but there’s steel in her spine.
She meets my gaze, silent.
Waiting.
Letting me lead.
I nod once.
Slow.
Hard.
"We’ll be ready," I say.
Silpha huffs out a breath.
"I'll keep feeding you supplies," she says. "Small batches. Nothing that'll tip off the patrols."
She pulls a folded slip of paper from her coat and slides it across the table.
"Coordinates," she says. "Service tunnels. Smuggler routes. Places you can hole up if it gets hot."
Kelli snatches it up, scanning it quick.
"How hot we talkin'?" I ask.
Silpha grimaces.
"Petru’s getting twitchy," she says. "Word is, he knows something's off. He’s been questioning everyone who ever even breathed your names."
My fists clench.
Damn bastard’s got eyes everywhere.
"We keep our heads down," I mutter. "Quiet. Careful."
"Exactly," Silpha says. She jabs a finger at me. "No heroics. No showing your face in the wrong sectors. You get caught, you’re dead. And worse—your kids are dead too."
