He meets my gaze then, and for a second I see his fear. Not the mask. The actual fear. “You’ll be walking into a fire-pit. Bishop won’t just hand over the chip.”
I lean back. “I might burn. But if I don’t step inside … what kind of journalist am I? What kind of woman?”
He exhales and stands. The holo-screen dims behind him. “Alright. We go.”
The word crackles like a gun-click. I swallow.
Leena leans forward. The cybernetic plates on her face catch the light and she looks older, sharper than when we arrived. “If you do this, you’re committing. I’ll provide coordinates, safe-house, extraction line. But Glimner is no fortress. It’s a jungle of vice and kills for sport.”
I nod. My fingers hover above the console. The ambient lights flicker. I can taste the tension—metal tang on my tongue, the sulphur-afterburn of the cruiser’s thrusters just outside.
Valtron comes to stand beside me, his height casting a shadow over half the console. My hand hits his arm. He glances down. I grip his forearm. The scales are cool beneath my glove. “Before we go,” I whisper. “After this mission—what happens to us?”
He doesn’t reply immediately. I watch his face. The room’s lights glow orange before the backup kicks in. The hum crescendos. The moment stretches.
Then Valtron reaches forward. His fingers brush my hair back—gentle, carry-over touches of battlefields and unspoken vows. His thumb grazes my cheek. The rough pad of his claw presses softly. “We see,” he says, voice low and real. “We see if the universe is big enough for a war-dog and a woman who tells the truth.”
I feel it all in one breath: promise, fear, possibility.
I nod. “We do.”
Packing for Glimner is less glamorous than I expected. The borrowed cruiser’s cargo deck has become our staging area. I zip my jacket, check the case with the data crystal twice. Valtron loads tactical gear—armor panels, stun grenades, the kind ofequipment that smells like regret and adrenaline and old steel. I breathe in the scent of it and taste the same. My stomach flips.
“Want some coffee?” I ask, trying lightness. The cruiser’s galley is a tiny cube with two chairs and a coffee-brew spout that never works right.
Valtron leans against the wall, arms crossed. “No thanks.”
He’s tense. I see it in the way his fingers drum the deck. The way his mask sits loose on his belt, the gold of his eyes exposed.
“So,” I say. “What’s your plan with Bishop once we find him?”
Valtron shrugs. “Get the chip. Extract him. Question him. Then you publish.”
“Then you disappear?” I whisper.
“Then we see.”
I press my lips together. “Don’t leave me behind.”
He looks at me. That look that still makes my knees weak. “I don’t plan to.”
But I hear the rain-drum of his doubts.
The trip to Glimner passes in motion blur. The cold moonscape in the rear-view is replaced by neon-ringed ports. The airlock opens into the scent of fermented liquor and burnt algae grills and cheap snapholos. The station side-port deck hums with music and clamor and broken people buying indulgence. Everything smells sideways. I breathe deep. If I were filming, I’d rate it a 9.3 on the exotic danger scale.
Valtron leads with a discreet hand at my back as we move through the crowd. I clench the case with the crystal. I feel the weight of it. The weight of everything.
We reach a back hallway—dim, less traffic. I glance at him. “We’re not safe yet.”
He nods. The gold in his eyes glows bright. “You focus on the crystal. I’ll handle what follows.”
The case feels warm in my hand. I almost smile. Warm has been a long time coming.
We reach the safe-house, battered metal door, padlock scratched like a confession. I knock the code. It opens. Inside: one room, one bed, one holo-screen. The scent is stale upholstery, old coffee, and invisible dust. I set the crystal on the table.
Valtron enters last. I notice the scar across his cheek—new. The cut fresh. My stomach lurches.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
