“Soon. He didn’t say exactly. But he knows. Or suspects. I can feel it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like he’s trying to memorize something.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “I’m fixing it.”
“You going to tell me what that means?”
“No.”
“Roja—”
“Because the less you know, the better.”
My fists clench. “That’s not good enough anymore.”
He leans in closer, voice dropping. “I’m not trying to keep you in the dark. I’m trying to keep yououtof it.”
We stare at each other. The hum of the machinery rises and falls around us like breathing. I can smell the ozone from the power grid and the hot metal curling off his skin.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I should. I almost do.
But I can’t say it.
Instead, I say, “I’m not going to Alliance space. I won’t go back.”
He nods once, solemn. “You won’t have to.”
But the way he says it doesn’t feel like a promise.
It feels like a line drawn in ash.
The walk back to my flat feels longer than it is.
Not because the distance has changed, but because something inside me has. My ribs feel too tight around my lungs, and every step echoes like I’m stomping through memories I don’t want anymore. The streetlights flicker as I pass. One goes out behind me.
Omen or faulty wiring—I don’t care.
The moment I close the door behind me, I lock every bolt. The sound of them sliding home is louder than it should be. I stand there for a minute, forehead pressed to the cold metal, letting myself breathe in this tiny pocket of stillness.
But I’m not still.
I’m buzzing. Fractured. Full of a thousand thoughts moving too fast to catch.
Roja’s words are still in my ears.I’m fixing it.He means it. I know he does. But he’s not the one whose name is on a dozen no-fly lists and a sealed warrant in Alliance space.
I am.
And I know better than to think promises keep people safe.
I cross to the closet, drop to my knees, and pull out the old bag. The one with the hidden pocket stitched in under the liner. My fingers find the split seam without looking.
The ID is still there.
The name printed across it makes me want to throw up. It’s mine. But not mine. A version of me that never got the chance to grow out of fear.
The face is younger. Hair tighter. Eyes flatter. A ghost of a girl who flinched too easy and trusted too fast.
