Her lips press together like she's trying to erase the words from the air. But it’s too late. They’re already embedded. Like shrapnel.
“I didn’t—” she starts, then cuts off. Her hands tremble slightly where they rest on the edge of the table. “My uncle forced me into this. I didn’t realize…”
Her voice trails off, like evenshedoesn’t buy her own excuse.
I step back.
Just one step. But it feels like a chasm opens between us.
“You thought shutting down half the alien-owned businesses in this district was about cityspending?” My voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to cut. “You didn’t think to ask who wrote the damn thing? Who benefits from it?”
“I didn’t know—look, I know it was a mistake, all right? I didn't even know what it was. He's using me to get you. I don't want any of that to happen, especially to you.”
“Bullshit.”
That silences her.
I rake a hand through my hair, claws catching in my scalp. I need to scream. Or throw something. Or walk into the walk-in fridge and just fuckingshatter.
But I don’t do any of that.
I do what I was trained to do—what I’ve done since the war when the pain’s too sharp to feel and the sky’s still bleeding.
I shut down.
“I trusted you,” I say, not looking at her now. Can’t. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. That’s on me.”
“Kenron…”
“No.”
I shake my head, voice suddenly too calm. Too level.
“You made your choice. Now I make mine.”
I turn, walk back into the kitchen. My feet feel like anvils. My chest is hollow steel.
Behind me, I hear the soft scrape of her chair as she stands. No rush. No plea. Just resignation.
She leaves without finishing the meal.
I don’t watch her go.
But I feel the door hiss closed like the end of something vital.
Something I hadn’t even realized I needed.
At the end of my shift, I don't bother turning off the lights.
Not right away.
The last of the kitchen’s firepit coils fade to ember, the floor’s been swept twice, and the doors are sealed tight. Still, I sit in the half-glow of the sconces, the ones lining the dining room ceiling with soft waves of golden flicker that mimic firelight—Vakutan design meant to mimic home hearths.
Feels hollow tonight. Like they’re just putting on a show for nobody.
I’m parked in the corner booth now.Herbooth. Not out of sentiment, but because I need to know I can sit here and not come apart. The air still holds the faint trace of her—faint perfume of whatever she wears when she’s not trying to look like a blade, and the spice from the dish she barely touched. My claws tap lightly against the tabletop, slow, steady, like I’m waiting on orders that’ll never come.
I close my eyes, let my head tilt back.
