"Gen," he said flatly.
"Good guess."
Lucen turned, phone half-lowered. "If this is about the rookie—"
"Oh, it's about the rookie."
Lucen stayed standing. "Tell me he didn't say my name."
"He didn't."
Lucen blinked.
Then Gen added, "The chat did."
Lucen closed his eyes.
Gen sounded amused. "You're trending in the drift bracket. Not your face. Not your spell list. Just 'the Ghost Tracer'—guy who melted the last match without flaring a rank tag."
Lucen didn't speak.
Gen let it hang a moment longer.
"Rikta's leaning into it," he continued. "Not saying your name, but talking like he wants it. 'If that support kid's still out there, I'll give him round two.' Stuff like that."
Lucen walked across the room slowly, phone still at his ear. The window wasn't open, but he could feel the city behind the wall. Breathing. Watching.
"He's playing it smart," Lucen said. "No direct callout. No liability."
"No proof."
Lucen looked down at his desk.
