Darun takes my hand, fingers intertwined. “You know this matters,” he murmurs. “This all matters.”
I nod, squeeze his hand. My voice soft, “It means everything.”
We talked about preparing for the show. How we’ll frame questions, buffer negative pushback. I tell him: “We’ll go live. No redactions. We’ll walk through legal walls together.”
His eyes shine and he nods.
Night falls soft. I slip from the kitchen, walk down the hallway, pause in the door to the bedroom. The room is dim—moonlight through blinds. I watch Darun asleep, face relaxed in that gentleness. Libra is curled beside him, hand draped over the curve of his tail. She breathes soft, weight warm against him.
I stand, the air sticky with wine and memory. My heart audibly rumbles in my chest. They breathe in rhythm—father and daughter, a tableau of what I never dared dream.
CHAPTER 40
DARUN
The little desk in the corner of Amy’s apartment feels like a bunker made of ordinary things. Papers, her old mic stand, an empty coffee mug with lipstick smudged on the rim. I sit there in the blue glow of my borrowed holocam, the soft whir of its fan the only sound. My claws trace the edge of the mic. My stomach is a knot of iron. This isn’t for the broadcast. This isn’t for Rex or the network. This is for her.
I start speaking, low and raw. “Amy…” My voice comes out gravel, catches. I breathe through it, taste the ozone tang from the holocam’s power light. “If you’re seeing this, something went wrong.” I pause, listening to my own heartbeat. “I don’t… make things like this. I was trained to leave messages on walls, orders in sand. Not feelings.”
The cam blinks. The apartment smells of basil and soap. I look straight into the lens. “You pulled me out of the ashes. You dragged me back from silence. You made me believe there’s something after the fight. That there’s a way to live that isn’t just surviving. That I could be a man, not a weapon.” My throat burns. “I thought peace was a story we told kids so they wouldn’t scream at night. Now I think… maybe it’s real. Because of you.”
I reach forward and thumb the recorder off. The blue light dies. My hands shake. I slide the data crystal into my coat pocket. Not yet. She doesn’t need to see this yet. I stand, every joint stiff from sitting too long, and stretch until my back pops.
Libra waits at the door, hoverkite tucked under her arm, boots laced wrong. She looks up at me with that half-mischievous grin. “Ready?” she asks.
“Always,” I answer. My voice softens. “Let’s fly.”
We walk to the park, the city around us humming. The smell of hot street food drifts from vendors—fried dumplings, sweet redfruit glaze. The pavement underfoot is warm. She skips two steps for every one of mine. Her hand is small in mine; her grip is fierce.
At the park, grass glitters with dew under the late sun. The air smells green, heavy with pollen. Children shriek at the playground, laughter like wind chimes. Libra breaks away, running toward an open patch. She holds up the hoverkite—bright red and gold, scales like a dragon—and waits for me to activate it.
I kneel, thumb the power node. The kite hums to life, anti-grav cores shimmering. I hand it to her. “Hold the handle steady. Let the wind do the rest.”
She tilts her head. “Like bravery?”
I blink. “What?”
She grins. “At school, Ms. Naor says bravery isn’t running at things. It’s holding steady.” She lifts the handle, lets the kite lift. It catches air, floats up, tail streaming. She squeals.
I stand, the sun on my back, the smell of grass and ozone in my lungs. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Exactly like bravery.”
She looks over her shoulder. “Are you gonna be famous now? On Mommy’s show?”
I crouch down, so we’re eye level. “Maybe. But only for telling the truth. That’s all fame should be worth.”
She squints. “Truth is brave?”
I nod. “Truth is the bravest thing there is.”
She beams and runs backward, letting the kite climb higher. It buzzes faintly, tail sparking blue. I watch her laugh, the sound filling holes I didn’t know were still inside me.
After a while we sit on a bench. I buy her a redfruit ice from a stand—sticky, bright, the scent sharp and sweet. She licks it, tongue turning pink. She chatters about cartoons, her friends, a teacher’s new hair. I listen, each word an anchor. She nudges me with her elbow. “You’re sticky,” she says, laughing.
I chuckle. “Warrior’s badge,” I reply, wiping syrup off my claws. She giggles harder.
By night the apartment is dim, windows cracked to let in the city’s hum. Amy moves quietly in the kitchen, putting away plates. The glitter sign still hangs crooked over the doorway, “DARRUNN SHOW!” sagging but bright. The smell of roasted herbs lingers. My coat hangs by the door; the data crystal feels heavy in its pocket.
I find her in the bedroom. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hair down, face turned toward the window. When I step in, she glances at me. Her eyes shine like stormlight. “Tomorrow,” she whispers, “we change everything.”
