I should be content. Should be relieved.
But what I feel instead is disoriented.
Like the room keeps shifting just slightly out of phase with me. Like I’m floating in a body that’s not mine.
Because for the first time in years, no one is chasing us.
The comm clicksonce at low frequency.
I sit up without jostling her. Pull my shirt over my head as I cross to the console.
A single message, no headers.
Ghost node relay. Drel’s signature.
I open it.
“Red tape’s cutting itself. Alliance flagged the bounty as 'fraudulent internal operation.’ Tarek reassigned. Private sector, hush-hush. Classic dodge. Your names are burned—officially dead.”
“Nobody’s hunting you anymore.”
“You’re free. Don’t waste it.”
I stare at the words until the text begins to blur.
Free.
The word lands heavier than I expect.
Like a blade pulled out too late.
By the timeI finish patching the hull sensor and taking the nav system out of passive lock, Rynn’s up. Her hair’s a mess. Shirt half-buttoned. She leans in the doorway with sleep still fogging her eyes.
She watches me like I’m made of glass.
“Bad news?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s over.”
Her brow lifts, slow. “Over over?”
“Drel says the Alliance swallowed its own tail. They flagged the bounty orders as fake. Our records have been erased.”
“Purged?”
“Burned.”
She steps into the cockpit, barefoot, her steps silent on the decking.
“You’re serious.”
I nod.
She exhales like she’s been underwater since Luria. Her eyes close. Her whole body sags, like the news isn’t just a relief—it’s a collapse.
When she opens them again, she looks older. Calmer. Sadder.
“So that’s it,” she murmurs. “No more running.”
