In the darkness, I hold her close. I know what I signed up for. I know the ghost signal still waits, the recall mission still looms. But right now, I choose this moment. The heat of her body, the promise of survival, the fragile line between duty and something more.
And as the ship hums around us, I admit to myself something I’ve never said: I’d choose her. Not the mission. Not the war. Her.
Because right now, she’s not just the woman who tells the truth. She’s the one I’m trying to keep alive.
CHAPTER 11
RHEA
The engine hum is a cough and a rattle, like a throat too long coated in rust and regret. The freighter we’re holed up in isn’t much more than a floating scrapyard—mid-orbit, patched together with cargo containers and chewing gum optimism. The walls creak. The air recyclers wheeze. And the light? Half-glow tubes that flicker like they’re afraid of the dark. This place doesn’t feel safe. It feels forgotten.
Which, I guess, is the point.
Valtron says the Combine won’t look for us here. Too much electromagnetic interference. Too much traffic from smugglers and rustrats who don’t report their heat trails. The kind of place that eats secrets and spits out salvage.
I sit on a bolted-down crate wrapped in stained synth-leather, chewing the inside of my cheek while the portable decryption rig flickers like it’s trying not to die. We salvaged it from a downed Alliance scout pod outside Vorthys orbit. Leena said the architecture might work better with the packet’s last lockbox. Said it’d give us a fighting chance to finish this before the Combine figures out we’re still alive.
But it’s Valtron I’m watching.
He’s not resting.
Not recharging.
He’s moving.
Over and over and over again.
Out past the main compartment, where the ship’s half-disassembled cargo hold opens up like the ribs of some dead metal whale, Valtron trains. Shirtless. Barefoot. Sweat slicks the deep red of his scales. His tail lashes with every turn. Every punch. Every motion that’s just a little too hard, too fast, too angry to be called practice.
He’s in a war with something I can’t see.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I stand, stretch the kink out of my neck, and walk toward him. The floor underfoot is metal on metal, ridged for grip but warped in places from heat damage. Every step clanks. Every breath echoes.
He doesn’t stop when I approach.
Doesn’t even glance at me.
Just pivots into a spin kick that cracks against the wall with a dull, heavyboom.
“Training or trying to break the ship in half?” I ask, folding my arms. My voice sounds smaller out here, like the air’s not sure it wants to carry my words.
He pauses. Barely. Just enough to register that I’m there. Then he slams into another combination—fist, elbow, tail swipe. Controlled violence honed into a dance. A brutal, silent symphony.
“Valtron.” I say it sharper this time. “Talk to me.”
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re brooding.”
He growls low. “I’m preparing.”
“For what?”
Silence.
That’s the answer, isn’t it?
