I stand there in the dark, shaking, my breath loud enough to fill the room. The only sound left is the storm outside, wind howling through the cracked windows like it’s mourning for me.
I stumble toward the travel crib again, because I can’t not look. His stuffed mech toy is still there, one arm half torn off, buttons glowing weakly in the dim light. I pick it up. It smells like him. That mix of dust, detergent, and something sweet I can’t ever name.
The smell guts me.
I drop to my knees again, clutching the stupid toy to my chest. The fabric’s damp from my tears before I even realize I’m crying.
I rock back and forth, the way I used to when he was a baby and colic kept him up half the night. My voice cracks.
“I’ll find you,” I whisper. “I swear it, baby. I’ll find you.”
The words echo in the empty room, swallowed by the wind.
Minutes—or maybe hours—pass before I move again. I can’t tell.
When I finally force myself to stand, I notice something I missed before. A mark near the doorframe.
Tiny. Subtle.
A faint scorch in the metal.
I crouch. Touch it. The edge is still warm. My stomach drops.
It’s from a plasma cutter—portable, surgical. The kind used by professionals. Not some random thief or local gang. Whoever did this was clean. Fast. Trained.
And the smell in the air… that chemical sweetness I tasted when I woke up.
Ataxian sterilizer. Sedative mix.
My pulse stutters.
Coalition.
Autrua.
I slam my fist into the wall so hard my knuckles split. “You goddamn witch.”
The room spins again, fury replacing fear. It’s almost a relief. Rage is easier. Rage keeps you moving.
I start throwing things into a bag—tools, spare ammo, medkits. My hands move on autopilot, but my mind’s a hurricane. I need a plan. A route. I need to assume Clint gets the message—but I can’t just sit here waiting.
If Autrua’s people took Vex, they’ll move fast. Diplomatic convoy, maybe. Or a Coalition drop. They’ll want him off-planet before I can make noise.
Fine.
Then I’ll make noise first.
The safehouse’s floor creaks behind me. I whirl around, gun raised before the sound even registers. The sight of my own shadow in the mirror almost makes me laugh.
“Losing it,” I mutter. “Completely losing it.”
I shove the gun back into its holster and head for the main control room. One of the power cells is fried—probably when they jammed the comms—but there’s still enough juice to trigger a localized burst. It’ll fry every surveillance node in a two-mile radius. No one’s tracking me after that.
My hands shake as I wire the loop. The spark flares too bright when it goes, the light searing white across the dark room. The monitors pop one by one, screens bleeding static before dying altogether.
Good.
No more eyes.
