Bishop laughs—a broken sound. “You’ll die trying.”
Rhea leans in, her face inches from his, and I see the steel in her set jaw. “Then Quinn did not die for nothing,” she says. “We live enough to make a dent. Isn’t that why you ran?”
He stares at her, eyes glittering wet. For the first time, he looks like a man, not a code. “I ran because I didn’t want to build their cage.”
“Then help us break it,” I say. I put my hand flat on the table. The gesture is gentle, not the kind I use with weapons. “Give us what you have. Access codes. Shipping manifests. Names and times. And whatever blood-money trail you can show.”
The siren starts like a whisper at first—just a soft chime in the floor beneath my boots—but it blossoms into a roar that rattles the walls of the Serpent’s Ledger and shreds whatever fragile anchor of calm we had. I freeze mid-step, seeing the chandelier of holo-cards above us flicker and then shatter like brittle promises. The glass rains down; the smell of supercharged ozone bursts in the air, mingling with the stench of spilled synth-wine and fear.
“Rhea!”I shout. My voice cracks through the chaos, and she flinches, silk sliding across the debris-strewn floor. I pivot and catch the first one—blade up, photon pistol hot. His muzzle flare lights his visor orange, then his eyes go dead as I shove him aside.
Lights strobe. Music warps into distortion. Someone screams. I feel the vibration under my soles like a drumroll for something monstrous.
I catch Rhea’s shoulder with a rough grip. “Move!” I growl.
She nods, lips tight. She stands, but the world shifts. A blast hits the wall near us; panels crumble. Glass shards splash over her hair. I smell burning ozone and taste adrenaline—cold and sharp.
As we sprint through the crowd, I feel my arm catch fire—impact, armor flare, a deep stab of heat. Doesn’t matter. I drag her toward the service ramp. People scatter like frightened fish, but she doesn’t slow. Her shoulder catches another graze—thin trickle of red. Her gown is torn.
“Valtron—” she gasps.
“No time,” I reply, voice clipped. “Get the crystal safe.”
The case thumps against my rib as I lift her. I carry her across a floor slick with broken glass and spilled drinks. My claws in combat mode—nothing soft tonight. The attackers are closing; their visors red-hot. I punch, I slash, I shield. One comes too close—this time I don’t hesitate. I disarm him with a snap of wrist and his wrist weapon tumbles.
The ramp door hisses open. Steam and blast-smoke pour in. I step onto the edge, lift Rhea, arms like girders. The cold air outside is sharp, clean, contrasts the hell inside. I taste it.
“Now!” I yell. Someone behind me fires. Bolt past, scorching panel of ramp. Rhea’s weight shifts. I catch the glint of panic in her eyes. I don’t let it grow.
We drop into the cargo skimmer. The hatch clangs shut. The engine rumbles like a beast awakened. I strap her in before I turn. I see the Ledger behind us erupt—the hull buckles, glass panels blur, an aftershock like a dying star’s sigh.
Rhea groans. I run a hand over her shoulder, pulling off the torn silk to expose the graze fully. Blood beads. She clenches her jaw.
“You’re lucky I’m too stubborn to die,” she says, voice faint. My chest tightens.
“Don’t joke like that. Not to me,” I growl softly. My hand falls to hers, fingers brushing blood and silk and promise. She stares at me—fear, anger, gratitude, desire all tangled. I don’t speak.
We take off, leaving the ruin behind. The skimmer’s hum fills the cabin. The lights flicker. Rhea leans against me. I rest my head on hers, the scar on her shoulder pressed into my armor. Her breath hitches, once, twice.
In the small med-bay later, the patch burns the wound. She hisses, splinters of pain. I hold her arm. She meets my eyes.
“You saved me,” she whispers.
“You didn’t fall,” I say.
“She says barely,” I add. She laughs, weak but real. I don’t try to lighten it. I let it sit.
That night, we lie back-to-back at first, the cot too small. I feel the metal frame press into my ribs. I sense the closure of the world beyond the walls. I close my eyes and listen to her breathing—soft, uneven, human. My mind flickers to the mission, the recall order I haven’t answered, the data still corrupted, the price still unpaid.
Her hand slides along my chest—barely there, a whisper of faith. “What if…” she says, voice just above a breath.
I turn. Face to face now, jungle of scale and vulnerability. “What if we live?” I ask.
She meets me. “Then we try. For real.”
I lean in close, our foreheads touching. Her scent—sugarfruit and iron and fear—fills me. I whisper, “Then don’t let me screw it up.”
Her eyes flicker. “I won’t.”
