Silence floods the corners of the room. His inhale drags shame back out, sharp and brittle.
“You’re sure?” he finally says.
I don’t hesitate. “Completely.”
He studies me. “You’ll be replaced.”
I nod. “I’m aware.”
He stands—formal, but the ice might crack. “Then good luck. You’ll need it.”
I rise. My legs tremble but my spine doesn’t—at least, not outwardly. I walk to the door.
I look back once. The office that once gave me purpose and identity now gives me exile.
I step out.
Behind that closed door, whispers explode. I don’t stop to listen.
My heels click down the corridor. Freedom tastes like cold air—bitter, cutting, engrossing.
I don’t know where I’m going.
But I’m going.
And for the first time, I’m doing it on my terms.
I don’t cry. Not even when I pull my clearance badge from beneath my blouse, the heavy plastic cool against my palm, the etched insignia of Goldwin’s justice system. I feel its weight—a symbol of everything I’ve been, everything I’ve lost. I press it into my fingers, a final contact before I place it consciously inside the security box with a soft click. The audible snap of my release echoes louder than any reprimand. It lands somewhere far below the sterile veneer of authority.
I step away, heels clicking on the polished stone floor. The doors glide open, revealing the blistering daylight of midday over Goldwin. The sun burns, and I blink up at it—unwelcomed, unforgiving. It doesn’t celebrate me or mourn me; it justis. Indifferent.
Outside, the city hums. Hovercars drift lazily by, advertisements scroll across the sky, tourists laugh in staccato bursts, unaware of the shift in my universe. Their joy is like static in my ears right now.
I keep walking because if I stop, the weight of everything I’ve given up might pull me into the pavement.
My office is gone. Gone are the cases I built, the legal briefs stained by my midnight hours, the convictions pried fromcorrupted systems—Nar’Vosk, Myrrin Prime, the hissing ghosts of organized crime that once taunted me, and that Idismantled. I sacrificed them, and so far, the only thing I’ve lost isme.
A dull ache nestles in my chest. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
I round a corner to a small park, one I used to pass on the way in but always ignored. Now the bench calls to me. I sit. The metal plumbing of my bones protests—my ribs, still healing but tender, remind me every breath is a flicker of life and risk.
I look up. The daytime sky reveals a strip of violet above the tower spires—an echo of stars too distant to see. The truth of the cosmos makes me look small, and that’s not a bad thing at the moment. I close my eyes, take in the scents: grass, recycled air, the faintest tang of salt from the sea.
At my feet, a child chases a rolling holoball. The laughter is light, ignorant, and for one fleeting second, I ache for that simplicity. For belonging. For identity that isn't tied to tragedy or compromise.
I didn’t cry when I handed in my badge. But I feel tears welling now, pushed behind my lids against my will.
Iamempty. Empty of status. Empty of purpose. My legacy? Already dissolving in official talk.
The stars shift in the sliver of sky overhead.
A voice cracks behind me. “Aria?”
I turn. A guard—junior, one I used to nod to in passing—stands there, hand suspended in awkward salute. His nametag reads “Rallin.”
He holds a small holo-disk. “They asked me to give this to you. From Chief Malvern.”
I nod. My voice sticks. “Thank you.”
