I don’t wait to see her face twist into something worse.
The back door slams behind me with a clatter that echoes through the alley.
Rain’s started. Gentle, barely there. Just enough to turn the air metallic and cling to skin like static. I breathe deep, trying to scrub the heat off my tongue.
I don’t know where I’m going. My boots slap against wet pavement, kicking up shallow puddles. Neon signs smear across the ground, pulsing with garish blues and sickly reds. My scarf sticks to my wrist, damp and useless now.
My legs take me through market rows half-shuttered. I smell fried grease, rust, wet fabric. I duck past an old vendor I recognize—he doesn’t even lift his head.
Past a loading bay where two workers argue in low tones. Past a bench where a woman cries into her hands. Past a maintenance droid blinking red, voice box glitching into soft static.
I end up staring down a dark alley, the walls sweating rainwater. I lean against one, press my forehead to the coolsynth-stone, breathing hard. My breath fogs and clings to the surface.
What the hell am I doing?
I slide down the wall until I’m crouched on the ground, arms around my knees. My whole body trembles—not from cold, from exhaustion. From the weight I’ve been carrying since the inspectors started sniffing, since Roja said he was fixing it.
Fixing it. What does that even mean?
My eyes burn. I blink fast.
Down the alley, a kid sleeps in the corner beside a busted crate, curled up with a threadbare synth-rabbit tucked under his chin. He’s maybe six. Maybe five. His face is smudged with oil and dust, but peaceful.
I dig the last credit chip from my pocket, fingers numb, and walk it over. Kneel. Set it beside his little hand.
He doesn’t wake.
I stare at him a second longer than I should, then turn and walk away before I let something break open in my chest.
The hours blur. My feet move on autopilot.
Somewhere near the water-processing plant, I find myself by the edge of the dry canal. The city buzzes behind me, but here it’s quieter—just the low hum of water pumps and distant sirens. I crouch at the lip, looking down at the murky reflection rippling beneath.
My hair’s plastered to my face. My skin looks gray in the light.
My reflection doesn’t look like me anymore.
I stare at it, unblinking, waiting for the moment when it might morph into someone I recognize.
It doesn’t come.
I sit on the edge, knees pulled to my chest. Not crying. Just existing.
It’s stupid to come here.
I know it the second my boots hit the grated walkway toward the shipyard dorms. The whole place hums like a breathing thing—metal cooling under moonlight, distant grind of gears shifting somewhere behind the main platforms. Air’s sharp with coolant and ozone, and there’s this oily taste on the back of my tongue I can’t spit out.
Roja’s not here. I knew he wouldn’t be. But it’s not like I had anywhere else left to go.
The maintenance dorms are tucked behind loading hangars, near the edge of the outer fence—out of sight, out of mind. I move fast, sticking to the shadows like I’ve done all my life, and when I reach his door, I don’t hesitate.
The tool’s small, black, worn smooth from hiding in my boot for weeks. I never told him I had it. I don’t know why I kept it.
The lock clicks. I slide inside and let the dark swallow me whole.
His quarters are utilitarian—like the man. Neat. Trimmed down to what he needs and nothing else. A single bunk, tight corners, a folding desk bolted to the wall. The light from the hall cuts in just enough to show a few personal things.
I move closer, careful not to disturb anything. There’s a compact knife near the pillow. Old military issue. The kind you don’t get unless you served in units that do things no one writes down. There’s a locked case half-pushed under the bed. I crouch, fingers brushing the surface. Cold. Seamless.
