The silence that followed Ethan's counter-demand was not peaceful; it was the heavy, suffocating pressure of a collapsing star. The Deacon's face, usually a mask of divine porcelain, twitching with a vein near his temple. The trap designed for a helpless pig had successfully lured a starving dire wolf into the heart of the home.
"You realize what you are asking for?" the Deacon's voice was a low hiss. "The entire coastline? From the tropical keys of Florida to the frozen forests of Maine? This has been neutral ground—a buffer zone for the capital—precisely because no single force should hold the throat of the nation's trade."
Ethan didn't flinch. He leaned forward, his hands flat on the obsidian table. "You said it yourself, Deacon. You're 'spread too thin.' If I'm the one bleeding on the docks to stop the Outsiders, I'm not doing it as a tenant. I'm doing it as the landlord. Every port, every lighthouse, every tax office. Mine."
