“Status report,” I snap as I round the corner into the tactical hub.
The room’s a hive of motion—officers pulling up holo-logs, alerts pinging in rhythmic bursts from red-lit panels, and thescent of scorched ozone still lingering in the vents. My boots hit the deck with purpose. Every face turns to me.
Lieutenant Razo steps forward. His lip is split, jacket scorched at the collar. “We’ve contained the breach. Eight confirmed hostiles down. Three unaccounted for, presumed KIA after the Reaper event.”
He means the war song.
The Reaper event.
Like it was some natural disaster instead of a fury I watched claw itself out of the man I just held together with blood and spit.
“Civilian losses?” I ask.
“Minimal. Four injuries, all non-fatal. One child treated for sonic trauma, but she’ll recover.”
I nod once. “And the compound?”
“Damage is surgical. They weren’t here to cripple infrastructure. They wanted command. They wanted him.”
They still do.
I feel the room watching me—measured glances, unspoken doubts. I’m not the one they follow. He is.
Was.
Until I say otherwise.
“Effective immediately,” I say, voice cutting clean through the buzz of comms, “I am assuming operational command of Centauri defense assets. Chain of command runs through me.”
Silence.
Then Razo nods.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t wait for the others. They’ll follow, or they’ll be replaced. We don’t have time for ego. The Nine just walked through our walls like they belonged here. The rules have changed.
And I intend to burn their new playbook.
I spend the next nine hours rerouting resources, reestablishing coms across three satellites, and personally vetting every medtech assigned to Aebon’s recovery wing. He gets no strangers, no greenhands. Only trusted operatives with eyes I’ve looked into before. I don't care how it looks. He bled for me.
And I’m not losing him to a stray hand or a missed pulse.
Night bleeds into morning with no warning.
I sit, finally, in the commander's chair. It’s warm from his body. Still smells like his cologne—oak and blood and something sharp that has no name. The silence is brittle. My fingers ache from hours at the console.
And in that silence, I make a decision.
No more shadows.
No more proxies. No more whispered threats behind coded messages and veiled intermediaries.
I slam my hand on the console.
“Open a line,” I say. “Level Omega.”
Razo turns. “You sure?”
