He lowers it. “Good luck… Ms. Dawson.” His eyes hold something broken and lost. I swallow and they shift away.
The world is that now—unraveling.
I touch the disk. The weight of his words and mine and everything else falls across my folds of spine.
I log into my comm-device, check the file. It’s a summary of the accusations—static, official, granite-hard. No context. No mitigation. Just a pattern of “violations.” A tombstone file.
It burns.
I stand, leaving the park behind. The stone is cool on my palm as I tuck the disk into my jacket.
I walk again. Nothing hurts more than knowing I can’t argue my way back. Not without erodingher—Aria the prosecutor. Not when my code exists only in the echo chamber of whispered loyalty, not inside legal statutes.
Traffic drones pass overhead, casting flickers of shadow across my face. I close my eyes and press a surprised hand against my ribs, surprised by how much my chest still aches. Funny—pain is a good reminder that you’re alive.
The city flutters around me, but I feel suspended. Drifting.
My career. My identity. My legacy.
All gone.
A dozen worlds of evidence rest in cold data banks—somebody else will claim them now. Maybe finish them.
But they didn’t save Aebon for me.
He saved me.
My jaw clenches. I imagine him in the safehouse, watching the dawn, thinking of me. I can almost see him there—strong, scarred, loving. I can almost hear his whisper:We’ll build again.
The night air tastes of salt and distant thunder spills across the ocean. Beneath my feet, the sand is cool and grainy, shifting under each breath I take. I came to the beach because I needed the stars—to remind me that even in darkness, light endures.
I stare upward, letting constellations crack through the obsidian sky. Somewhere, a shooting star arcs in silence. I clutch my coat tighter, though it does nothing against the chill, andclose my eyes. For a moment, I can pretend I’m alone—without the weight of every title lost and every future blurred.
He finds me in the hush.
Aebon steps onto the beach like he steps into my world—soft-footed, sure, urgent. His presence hums through the space between us. I don’t hear him come; I just feel gravity shift.
He sits beside me, the sand compressing under his weight. I smell him first: smoke and rain, leather and heartache. My stomach tightens. I burn against the dull ache in my ribcage—physical pain, but worse, emotional wounds that aren’t located in any bruise or fracture.
He doesn’t speak.
I wait.
When at last I breathe, it’s because the surf invites confession.
“I gave up everything for you.” My voice breaks on the salt wind. It’s not a question; it’s a revelation. A punctuation after the ruin of career and creed.
He shifts closer, shoulders rigid against mine, but intimate. His warmth flows in waves through my coat into my bones. Silence stretches.
Then his voice folds into mine, low and certain:
“Then let me give you something in return.”
He reaches for my hand—calloused, warm, trembling slightly. I don’t pull away. He curls my fingers over his heart.
“I want you to come with me,” he says, meaning everything. “Be more than my lover. Be my second—my equal.”
The words reverberate like tidal waves in the hollowed chambers of my chest. I stare at his hand, at the way my skin presses into his. I feel something ancient stir—a desire deeper than love, darker than ambition.
