She nods solemnly. “I can try not to roar.”
I hug her so tightly she squeaks.
“Mom,” she giggles. “You’re squishing my brain.”
That night, after she falls asleep — finally, mercifully — I sit beside her bed in the dim light of the night orb.
Her little chest rises and falls in soft, rhythmic waves. She’s tucked the raptor under one arm, its ragged eye peeking out from the covers.
My gaze lingers on her hands.
Small. Delicate.
But earlier, those handsbroke reinforced composite.
Vakutan strength.
It’s not coming.
It’shere.
The human in her might dampen it, slow it — but it’s building. Coiling under her skin like it’s waiting for a moment to surge.
And she’snot ready.
I’m not ready.
My daughter is a classified secret. An illegal hybrid. A miracle.
If the Alliance finds out, they won’t care that she’s sweet. Or funny. Or loves picture books about star-whales.
They’ll see what she did today — and they’ll make herdisappear.
I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
Even if it means lying again.
Even if it means running.
___________________________________________________________________________
The burner hisses low, the synthetic oil bubbling just shy of a simmer. My hands work on autopilot—chopping rehydrated leeks, scooping noodles into the pot.
Nessa hums behind me, seated at the table with a crayon clenched tight in her fist. She’s scribbling across her third piece of scrap paper—spaceships again. All claws and teeth and fire. The hum changes pitch when she’s focused. Not a tune, notexactly. More like a sound her body makes when it’s trying to regulate.
Like she’s keeping somethingin.
I’m just about to stir in the nutrient cubes when my comm buzzes on the counter.
I glance. Freeze.
Notice of Review — Subject: Nessa Sorala
Sender: Corven-7 Ed-Center Administrative Board
I tap it open with a trembling finger.
