“That’s not a favor. That’s a reckoning.”
I say nothing.
He leans in. “Who is she?”
I hang up.
Later, when I explain it all, Kelsea doesn’t like the plan.
“You’re what?” she says, eyes wide, voice low and sharp.
I nod, calm as I can. “It’s the only way. We can’t keep dancing around this. If we go through official channels, it’ll vanish. Buried before it breathes. But if it’s public…”
“They’ll know it’s you.”
“Maybe. But they won’tproveit.”
She shakes her head, pacing. “You think that makes me feel better?”
“No. But it’s the only leverage we’ve got.”
She looks up at me, fire flashing in those eyes. “You’re gambling with your life.”
“I’ve gambled with worse.”
She’s quiet. Then: “And what happens after?”
“We watch. We wait. And if it doesn’t stick, we run.”
She exhales, sharp. “I don’t run well.”
I step closer. “Neither do I.”
There’s a beat where we just stand there, her hands clenched, mine still holding the drive. The air between us hums with fear and something heavier—resolve, maybe.
She finally says, “Okay. Do it.”
And just like that, the last line’s been drawn.
I’ve always known my time would come sharp and loud. Not slow like disease or soft like sleep. Just a flash—burned nerves, a splatter of blood, maybe not even my own. That’s the way enforcers go when they outlive their usefulness.
And here I am, shoving a pulse grenade into a wall panel, calibrating the motion sensor to detect anyone but her.
It’s not that I want to die. It’s that I know how to prepare for it.
Kelsea’s on the cot, back pressed to the wall like she’s trying to disappear into the steel. She hasn’t said a word in two hours, but she watches everything—like she’s memorizing escape routes I haven’t drawn yet.
She’s angry. Still coiled from our last fight. But more than that, she’s scared. We both are.
I dig out the long case, the one under the bed where I swore I’d never look again.
The lock clicks open, and there it is—my real history.
Old sidearms, grip-worn from missions that never made the records. Knives with blackened edges and broken hilts. A sniper coil I built from scavenged tech during a siege on Balthus Prime. Blood’s still on the barrel. I don’t clean it anymore.
She shifts when she sees the weapons. Not afraid. Just... quiet.
“Wasn’t sure I’d need these again,” I mutter, pulling a short blade free, testing the weight. Still balanced. Still perfect.
