“You fix things,” he murmurs, not a question.
“I try.”
“You do more than try. You fight with your hands.”
“Better than fighting with a blade,” I snap before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t react. Just watches. The silence between us stretches long and strange. I can hear the rasp of his breathing, steady and deep. The smell of smoke mixes with something musky, earthy—him.
The grav-scrubber sputters to life. A faint glow seeps from the coil, blue-white and weak butwarm.I exhale a shaky laugh, leaning back against the wall. “There. We won’t die cold, at least.”
He tilts his head. “You make light out of ruin.”
“Don’t romanticize it, soldier,” I mutter. “I just don’t want to freeze to death.”
His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long, and something hot and sharp slides beneath my ribs. I look away fast, busying myself with my tools.
We settle into silence. The kind that hums rather than rests.
He sits near the makeshift heater, massive frame folding awkwardly against the wall. His armor creaks when he shifts. I can see the faint shimmer of scale along his neck where the plating doesn’t quite cover. The faint rise and fall of his chest. He’s not human, not by a long shot. But there’s something oddly… familiar about him.
The heat trickles slowly through the compartment, taking the edge off the chill. I can almost pretend we’re not orbiting death itself. Almost.
“How long will that last?” he asks finally.
“Six hours if we’re lucky.”
“And then?”
I shrug. “Then we improvise.”
He grunts. “You’re stubborn.”
He leans his head back against the bulkhead. The motion’s oddly… weary. “Your kind calls us monsters.”
“Not inaccurate,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
He huffs a low sound that might be laughter—or maybe just breath. “We call your kind thieves.”
I look at him sharply. “You think westolethis technology? The singularity drive was built with Coalition specs, sure, but you people abandoned the joint research accords years ago. The Alliance just picked up where you left off.”
He turns his head, eyes glowing faintly in the half-light. “Picked up, or weaponized?”
I open my mouth, then close it. Because he’s not wrong.
The silence comes back, thick and awkward.
I finally say, “We didn’t mean for this.”
“No one ever does,” he answers quietly.
The sound of his voice surprises me. There’s no threat in it. Just truth.
I should be trying to get away. I should be scheming, planning, anything other than sitting here talking to the enemy.But I can’t seem to move. My head’s pounding. My muscles ache. My eyelids are getting heavy.
He doesn’t sleep.
He sits there like a statue carved from obsidian, eyes half-lidded but alert. Watching. Waiting.
