I don’t cry.
I don’t.
But my throat knots up so tight I have to look away for a second. Just one second.
Valtron walks in then, towel around his neck, chest still glistening with sweat from training. He sees the picture, and something in his face changes—softens, like metal melted under warmth. He kneels, takes the drawing from her small hands like it’s priceless, and walks to his locker.
Without a word, he tapes it up inside the door.
That same door that’s been opened to patch wounds, to prep for battle, to bury fear in the name of survival. Now it holds a crayon reminder of why we’re still fighting.
I cross the room.
He looks up just in time to see me reach for him.
And when I kiss him, it’s not soft or tentative. It’s everything. Every promise, every broken moment made whole. It’s war and peace, rage and surrender. His hands find my waist. Mine knot in his shirt.
“I love you,” I breathe into his skin.
He doesn’t say it back.
He doesn’t need to.
The next morning,the world ends again.
I’m halfway through reviewing the spread algorithm for the second data crystal—trying to map out who got what and how fast it’s propagating—when my pad pings.
No sender.
No header.
Just a single holo.
It opens automatically, despite every firewall I’ve embedded.
It’s Ripley’s daycare.
The one I pulled her from.
But this isn’t a memory file.
It’s live feed.
And there’s a red reticle pulsing over the door.
Pulsing.
Pulsing.
Target acquired.
My hand goes ice-cold. My vision tunnels. There’s a scream stuck somewhere in my lungs but I can’t find the air to push it out.
Valtron sees my face before he sees the screen.
“What is it?”
I hand it to him. My fingers won’t close around the pad.
