I step into the storm. The city tastes of ozone, sorrow, possibility. I carry her. I carry this moment. The microphone I gave up, the secret still unspoken, the man I love — all of it bleeding.
I whisper to myself as the wind lashes past:I will rebuild.
The network door recedes behind me. My past is sealed behind steel and silence. And I step forward into what remains: a daughter, a secret, a broken vow. The lie stands between us.
CHAPTER 46
DARUN
The hotel room feels too small for me. Low ceiling, recycled air, carpet that smells faintly of mildew and detergent. The lights are that pale, buzzing corporate kind—no warmth, no shadow, just sterile illumination. Every hum of the vents grates on my nerves. Even my claws twitch against my knees without meaning to, scraping soft grooves into the fabric of my pants. I sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched forward, staring at the holo-screen like it’s a mirror that hates me.
The feed loops.
My own voice, “Captain Kanapa was a great man. A hero. A patriot.” Again and again.
Each replay lands like a hammer to my chest. The cadence of my words is wrong, mechanical, nothing like the vows I whispered to Amy while we built our questions, our plan.
Her face flashes on screen between takes. Shock first, then devastation—her lips pressed together, her knuckles white on the desk. That expression lives behind my eyelids now, more vivid than anything else.
I reach out and hit pause. Her image freezes mid-breath. Her eyes—too alive, too betrayed—stare back at me. My claws curl. The air tastes metallic, like old blood in my mouth.
I stand abruptly. The mattress springs squeal. My boots sink into the carpet. I pace, back and forth. Each step is a drumbeat of regret. I whisper under my breath, “Stupid. Coward. Traitor.” The words taste like grit.
My holocomm sits on the little table by the window, glowing with standby light. I reach for it. My hand shakes so hard the claws scrape the plastic. I tap Amy’s contact—call initiated.The ringing fills the room, thin and distant, like a plea traveling through tunnels.
It rings. And rings. No answer.
I grit my teeth and call again. Still nothing.
“Amy,” I rasp into the empty room, as if she can hear it. “Please pick up. Please…”
The line cuts out. Silence.
I slam the comm back onto the table. It clatters, spins, stops. My breath comes heavy. I grab it again, thumb hovering over the button. I picture her on the other end—her jaw tight, not answering. I slam it harder this time, a snarl tearing from my throat.
The unit hits the wall with a crack. Plastic shatters. Sparks spit like fireflies. The glow dies. Pieces scatter across the carpet, one under the chair, one by the vent. My hands tremble. The sound echoes in the box of this room like a gunshot.
Dowron’s voice creeps into the silence, as vivid as if he’s standing at my back:“You did the right thing. You prevented chaos. You protected the Alliance.”
It feels like poison poured down my throat. “Right thing,” I mutter, pacing again. “Right thing, right thing—” My claws rake the wallpaper, leaving faint lines.
I stop at the window. Rain hisses against the glass, streaking down in silver rivulets. Outside, the city glows with neon arteries—pink, violet, a thousand electric veins. The sound of traffic is a low growl beneath the hiss of rain. I unlatch the window with just a crack. The wet air rushes in, cold against my overheated skin. It smells like ozone and iron. A drop lands on my forearm and runs down to my wrist.
I rest my forehead against the glass, breath fogging it. The reflection stares back: a scaled face, eyes like coals, a stranger. I whisper, “What have you become?”
I stagger back and collapse into the desk chair. The chair creaks under my weight. My claws dig into the armrests, fabric tearing. I stare at the pile of shattered comm pieces. A child’s drawing peeks out of my coat pocket, edges bent.
Libra’s drawing.
“Good luck, Darun!” in uneven letters, redfruit lollipop stains at the corner. She drew me with wings, even though I have none. She drew Amy standing beside me, smiling. My throat closes.
I pull it out, hold it between trembling claws. The paper is soft, warm from my body. I press it to my forehead, inhaling faint crayon scent. My chest hurts.
“She believed in you,” I whisper. “They both did.”
I drop the paper on the desk and cover my face with my hands. My voice drops to a growl. “You broke it. You broke everything.”
I shove back from the desk, stand, pacing again. My boots sink into the carpet with each step, muffled thuds. The wallpaper’s bland pattern blurs with my movement. I want to rip it down.
