And that’s new.
At the club, I move like I’m carving space for myself. The flames obey me faster. The scarf swirls like a comet tail around my body. Even the crowd changes. Their whistles dull under the weight of something heavier. I don’t know what they see. But it’s not the same girl who started here, hiding in fire because it made her feel less small.
I’m not dancing for escape anymore.
I’m dancing because someone sees me, and I want to be worth looking at.
Ceera corners me again backstage, twirling a spark stick between two fingers. “Alright. Spill.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Spill what?”
“Whoever he is. Big. Quiet. Trouble with a capital T and a jaw you could slice synth-steak on.”
I blink, heart kicking. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She smirks. “Mhm. And I’m a Vakutan nun. You’ve been glowing, Kels. Either you found religion or you’ve been getting wrecked on the regular.”
“Ceera—”
“No judgment,” she cuts in, waving her stim like a pointer. “Just saying. If it’s that Grolgath who keeps not looking at you directly… girl, you better wear fireproof panties.”
I choke on air.
Ceera cackles and walks off like she just dropped a match in a powder room.
I sit down hard on the bench, staring at the scarf folded next to my kit.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting to fall.
I feel like maybe, just maybe—I’m ready to stand.
Of course, the universe doesn’t let me be happy for long. I hear it first from the kitchen girl with the crooked teeth and fast hands.
“There’s a new cleric assigned to the Jark sector,” she whispers, voice half-lost in the hiss of grease and the thrum of kitchen fans. “Coalition transfer. Straight from the core.”
She says it like we’re supposed to know what that means. And we do. We all do.
Core means closer to Ataxia. Closer to doctrine. Closer to iron-fisted rule and zero tolerance for illegal residents. My hands go still over the countertop, the makeup sponge smudging foundation over my collarbone like a bruise that doesn’t want to fade.
Ceera hears it too. She flicks a stim out of her pack, but doesn’t light it. Just rolls it between her fingers. Her gaze finds mine across the prep room—tight, quiet.
“You alright?” she mouths.
I nod. Lie.
The casino owner, Bresh, starts walking around like he’s got a tick chewing behind his ear. Big man, red-eyed Kiphi, always draped in synthetic fur and overpriced cologne. Normally he doesn’t notice us unless a performance goes sideways. Now he’s pacing the back corridor muttering to himself, voice low and sharp like cut glass. He’s worried. That worries me more.
Word gets around fast. Random ID sweeps. No pattern. No rhythm. Just pop-ins and paper demands. No warning.
I start sleeping in shifts again. Bag half-packed. Credits tucked in my boot like the old days. I run the exit route three times in my head. Back stairwell. Side corridor. Sewer hatch. I haven’t touched that hatch since the first week I got here. Too many rats. Too much risk.
But if it’s run or be caught, I’ll chew my way through the walls if I have to.
Still… something in me resists the instinct.
I’ve run my whole damn life. Slipped through cities like breath through a keyhole. Never stayed. Never let anyone know me long enough to miss me.
But now?—
