I was planning on reading old footage tonight. Tracing logs. Chasing shadows. But I veer off the path. I take the maintenance ladder down. I slip past the guards. I move silent—because I’ve trained in silence. Because I know what I want.
And I find a door, half-open. A hall of little techs, drones, staging gear, remote rigs. Children’s laughter echoes from down a service shaft. I pause.
I shouldn’t go in.
But I do.
The hatch leads to a side corridor, dim, unused for main traffic. I follow the sound. Light from a hatch glows weak orange. I step in.
There she is.
A small figure crouched beside a cracked service window. Loose wires. A fallen drone. Her hair is flaxen. Her shoulders squared with the gravity of the moment.
Rhea’s daughter.
Ripley.
My chest tight-ropes across my ribs. I want to throttle myself for stepping in. For watching. For recognising her.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
I crouch behind a barrel. The hiss of a leaking coolant pipe drowns everything except the pounding in my ears.
Ripley’s muttering.
“Come on, come on… Mr. Blastaar’s too tall. Too loud. Too big. But maybe he’ll help.”
Help? My name.
Her boots scuff against the concrete while she tries to drag the drone aside. Her small hands flex around the panel.
I swallow.
My mind scrambles.
This is a trap.
My public image. Rhea’s hidden life. The kid who has more right to call me dad than she knows.
But for now she’s just a little girl tangled in electronics.
I stand.
Footsteps soft. I step into the halo of orange light.
She doesn’t jump.
She doesn’t say anything yet.
I clear my throat.
“Need a hand?”
Her head whips up.
Blue eyes. Golden-yellow rim. My eyes.
She blinks twice.
