The early-morning light spills through the studio window in pale, forgiving bands. The monitors hum around me, the mechanical hum of cameras warming up, the soft hiss of teleprompters flicking on, the distant murmur of production staff checking mics and feeds. I sit in the makeup chair, heavy under the contour lights and foundation brushes, staring into a mirror I barely recognize. The face staring back is sleek, composed, polished for prime time. They whisper “Steel Amy” behind the scenes—because I never slip, never let emotion bleed through, never let the audience see the jagged edges of me.
But home is different.
By the time the evening shift ends and the neon signs outside the studio blink alive, I’ve already changed. The holoskin over my arms flickers to normal tone. The curves of Vakutan scales hide beneath its smooth surface. I wrap my three year old daughter, Libra, in a blanket and rock her to sleep, humming that lullaby I heard in the ruins—the Vakutan melody I learned from Darun’s old data logs. I’m rambling it softly now under my breath:“Soft moons rise, follow light, dreams carve wings in the darkest night.”Her eyelids flutter in that deep golden sleep, and I press my hand to her forehead, warm, alive.
Rex hovers in my apartment doorway when I switch off the studio lights around midnight. He looks older than his years. There are lines at the corners of his eyes he didn’t have before. He hands me a tablet with updated ratings. The network is always hungry for ratings, and I feed it the illusion of perfection.
“Still got your Kanapa story?” I ask him quietly, voice low so Libra won’t hear, though she’s asleep two rooms away and probably wouldn’t understand even if she did.
Rex sighs. He leans against the doorframe, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s a weight you carry, Amy. We both know the cost. If we drop it now, nobody touches the network. The execs purge it. The advertisers pull. You’ll be next.” He taps the tablet, a red bar graph he’d erased and redrawn three times already. “It’ll sink the network.”
I swallow. I’ve heard that line so many times. It’s become a lullaby of its own kind. “Maybe that’s the point. Sometimes a story has to sink everything built on lies.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re risking your life—for a ghost. For someone the world thinks is dead or erased.”
“He isn’t erased fromme,” I say. “Every time I look at her—” I don’t say his name. It’s too heavy. “—I see him there.”
Rex’s face flickers. “She doesn’t know.”
“She knows her eyes. She asked, 'Mommy, why are my eyes gold?' I told her, ‘Because someone extraordinary loved you once.’” I pause, letting the words settle. They’re true, even if the world won’t ever hear them.
Rex’s eyes soften. “That’s… beautiful.” He moves closer. “Listen—” he huffs, the tension in his shoulders sagging. “I’ll keep an eye open. Quiet leads. Maybe one day the leak is big enough. Maybe we don’t wait forever.”
We stay like that, the city lights humming through the blinds. But we don’t fix things—not yet.
On weekends, when the newsroom’s cold corridors echo with emptiness, I slip into the hidden folder I keep on a private drive. The log entries don’t go to air. Nobody sees them. They’re just for me. I write by hand now, because typing feels too exposed—like someone’s watching my fingerprints.
“Today Libra asked why her eyes are gold.”I write that again in my private log.“I said, ‘Because someone extraordinary loved you once.’ I still feel the ache. I want to say (his name)—but the galaxy will never hear it.”
I trace the letters, let the memory crack between them. I remember the canyon, the fire, the way Darun’s golden eyes glowed in smoke. I miss him so deeply it tastes like rust in my mouth.
When Libra’s small, raspy voice wakes me early—“Mama?”—I pretend I’ve been sleeping. I hug her close. She smells like milk and baby shampoo and promise. Her hair is tousled, her cheeks plump. “Did you dream?” I ask softly. She nods, rubs her eyes. I brush her hair, whispering, “I dreamed of someone strong and kind. You’ll hear about him one day.” She yawns and hugs me back. I press my cheek to her head. I don’t tell her she already sees him every time she looks in the mirror.
In the studio, they introduce me as “Amy Matthews — prime-time anchor, voice of the people, face of reason.” It sounds hollow when I tell it aloud. Hands on the lectern, I broadcast calm, clarity, neutrality. I deliver war stories, reconciliations, economic forecasts, briefings, tragedies. All while the secret backstage war simmers under my ribs.
After the broadcast tonight, interns hover by the makeup booths, jostling for scraps of insight. They say, “Steel Amy never falters.” I smile and nod. I’m polite, encouraging. Inside, my guts twist. They don’t know what lies under this mask. They don’t know how I press my fingers to my thigh later and feel the faint ripple of hidden scale.
Rex joins me in the green room afterward. He palms his chin. “We got a call — you got fan mail. Disguised code in the replies.” He shows me a line from one message: “We remember what you fought for.” It’s faint, maybe meaningless. But a spark.
I lean back. “It’s not enough.”
He shakes his head. “But it’s something.”
Late night, windows open, city hum drifting in. I set Libra’s crib beside my own bed. She’s deep asleep before I’m home. In the darkness I lie awake, thinking. Thinking of him. Thinking of all the days I wanted to break. But couldn’t. Thinking of her, and the life I promised to protect.
I slip out of bed, move to the small kitchen. The test strip—the proof I held when I thought I was the only one—sits in a little container. I look at it again. The plus sign. A life inside me, a spark in the void. My body changes. My breath changes. I wonder if someday Libra will ask where her father is. What I’ll tell her. I promise: I’ll teach her his truth.
Tomorrow in the newsroom I’ll press Rex again. I’ll push for that leak. I’ll push because silence murdered more than the war ever did.
Before I go to sleep, I record a private entry in the hidden log:“I built a life in the quiet. It’s not freedom, but it’s enough for now. But she’ll know him. I’ll make sure she does. Even if the galaxy never hears your name.”
Then I slide beneath the sheets. I hold nothing but memory, future, and a heartbeat—my daughter’s, and mine. Silence becomes its own fight.
CHAPTER 22
DARUN
The first thing I notice is the smell. Something colder. Sharp antiseptic layered over old ozone, a metallic tang like rain on broken circuits. My nostrils flare and a cough drags itself out of my chest, dry and rattling, like a voice unused for years. My tongue sticks to my teeth. My muscles feel like sandbags full of stone.
