We collapse—sweating, gasping, shaking.
He wraps his arms around me. Our breath syncs. My fingers trace the bone ridges on his chest.
“That was—” I start.
He kisses my forehead. “Everything.”
CHAPTER 28
ARIA DAWSON
The Sanctum’s corridors gleam under violet lights, and for the first time in months, there are no urgent comms to decode, no bloodied files to read. Aebon is healing—legs repaired, shoulder tending to mend—and I’ve gradually taken back the reins of daily operations. Goldwin pulses with unchanged vibrancy now that it’s cloaked in order and stability—once-locked storefronts reopen, neon signs hum in renaissance, and ordinary people walk its streets without glancing over their shoulders. Each day feels like a small redemption.
I wake before dawn and catch my reflection in the sleek polished steel frame of the sliding doors. The woman staring back has honey-blonde hair pulled into a tight coil, green eyes circled with faint shadows, lips set in a line that’s no longer tense—but curious. I draw in a breath that smells faintly of lavender and polished varnish. The quiet hum of Sentinel drones echo through ceilings, a reminder of control, not surveillance.
When I arrive, Aebon lounges behind his desk, rib stitch still tender but posture regained. “Morning,” he says with a half-smile. “You’ve practically got the empire on autopilot.”
I glance at his desk, at reports on enforcement calibrations and alliance outreach. “We’ve switched from brute force tosurgical intervention. It’s paying off.” My voice feels steady in the sunlight-eechewing office.
He lifts his coffee mug—Vakutan blend—and I hand him a fresh refill. The aroma curls between us: dark, nutty, with a sweet aftertaste. He inhales, sighing. “People are talking,” he says. “Whispers of optimism. That’s your doing.”
I lean against the desk, arms folded. “Your return made headlines, sure. But the difference is trust—the kind you built, the kind we sustained.”
He rests elbows on the desk. “Tell me where your head is.”
I glance at the cityscape beyond. “Honestly? I find myself staring at the mirror”—I tap my temple—“more than usual.”
He nods, capturing every tremor in my eyes.
I continue: “I’m balancing so many roles… prosecutor, power broker, his equal. And some nights, I still wonder if I’m that person.” My fingers tug at the hem of my blazer, tracing invisible seams.
He rises and steps around, placing warm fingers at the nape of my neck. His touch anchors me. “Youarethat person,” he reminds me. “You saved me. You saved this city.”
I swallow, breath hitching. “But at what cost?” I whisper.
He cups my face. Eyes soft, unwavering. “At the cost of becoming who we needed. And you? You perfected both justice and vengeance. That’s rare.”
I swallow. His words settle like embers. Outside, the city continues to breathe, alive under our stewardship.
We gather in the conference room: Bruna, Haarvik, Loran, and a handful of former rival faction leaders-turned-allies. There’s a buzz in the room—diplomatic shifts, new storefront openings, tech-lab proposals from ex-Nar’Vosk affiliates looking for a clean slate.
Bruna nods to me. “Goldwin’s crime stats are down by twenty-seven percent this quarter,” she reports. Her voiceis clipped with professional pride. “Resident surveys note increased safety—citizens feel empowered.”
Haarvik adds: “Transportation routes are calmer. Cargo routes secure. We’re not just crushing crime—we’re curbing desperation.”
I smile. “We’re also designing outreach programs. Clinics in underserved districts, job training funded by former Sect income.” My tone is firm, but hopeful. “That’s long-term stability.”
Loran leans forward. “Clients. The old mob families now see Sect protection as a service, not a threat.” He waves hands for effect. “They pay dues, but they comply by laws. Legal loopholes instead of bullets.”
I nod. “This isn’t victory by fear. It’s victory by integration.”
Arms cross, the room exhales. There’s relief hidden behind professional masks. I feel pride blossoming—this is the life I wanted: impact without bloodshed.
Still, I catch my reflection in the corner holo-screen—blonde hair, green eyes, lines forming at my temples. I touch the glass illusion of glass.
Goldwin glows beyond my window—ivory facades, neon signs, families in streetside vendors, tourists drifting across the Pleasure Planet’s highlight zones.
I step toward the mirrored wall, the full-length reflection staring back. My shoulders rest steady. My eyes, though, hold a flicker of uncertainty.
