The room was dim, lit by the flicker of an old kerosene lamp. The faces around Jayden looked worn fighters, traders, informants men and women who had bled for a kingdom that was now built on smoke and fear. Malikah stood at his side, arms crossed, a quiet sentinel. The Burned Boy leaned against the wall, his eyes colder than they used to be. The rebellion was breathing again, but the lungs were cracked too many promises, too little money.Jayden dropped a stack of crumpled bills on the table. It wasn’t enough to fuel a week’s worth of operations. “We’re running dry,” he said. “And the puppetmaster’s tightening every route. The cops take our cash, the banks flag every move. If we don’t refill the veins, the city eats us.”Malikah’s jaw tightened. “Then we sell what they can’t trace. Weapons, protection, fear. You taught them what power costs. Time they start paying again.”Jayden’s eyes flickered not with greed, but survival. “Street taxes?”She nodded. “Not like before. This time, we