Now there’s Roja.
Roja who brings dumplings without asking. Roja who doesn’t ask me to talk, just listens with that heavy silence that settles around him like armor. Roja who lets me breathe without watching me flinch.
And suddenly I’m thinking less about how to leave and more about what it would mean to stay.
I catch him after shift in the alley beside the noodle vendor where the steam fogs the windows and the air smells like soy and fire oil.
“ID sweeps,” I say without preamble.
His shoulders tighten, just a twitch. “Where?”
“Everywhere.” I lower my voice, tugging the hood of my coat tighter. “They brought in a new cleric from central. Bresh is sweating bullets. It’s not good.”
He nods, slow. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.” My voice cracks a little. I hate that. “I don’t want to run.”
His eyes find mine. Steady. “Then don’t.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is.” He leans against the wall, the bulk of him shadowed by the flickering streetlamp. “You stay. I make sure you stay safe.”
“You don’t owe me that.”
“I know.”
Something unspoken passes between us. It sticks in my throat. I want to ask him if he’s ever run from anything. If he knows what it’s like to be hunted not because of what you did, but because of who you are.
But I don’t ask. Because I know the answer just looking at him.
He was built to fight. I was built to disappear.
And somehow, we met in the middle.
Later, in the dressing room, I go through my bag for the fifth time that day. My old ID’s still buried in the lining. Faked scan strip, expired registration number, name I don’t answer to anymore. I almost throw it out. Almost.
Instead, I tuck it back in and zip the bag shut.
Ceera walks in mid-motion. Sees the look on my face.
“You thinking about leaving?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
I sit on the bench, fingers digging into my thighs. “I’m thinking about what happens if I don’t.”
Ceera doesn’t respond right away. Just pulls a fresh stim, lights it this time, and exhales slow.
“You got someone now,” she says. “That changes things.”
“Yeah. It does.”
We don’t say his name. We don’t have to.
And the strangeness keeps on coming. Roja’s acting funny, too. He doesn’t say anything, but I know.
