I tug the collar of my blouse up. Smooth the wrinkles. A stylist offers powder, and I wave her off.
Valtron sits beside me, dressed down. No armor. No theatrics. Just a plain black shirt and the faint bruising on his temple from training drills.
Ripley is with Marla. Guarded. Safe.
For now.
The interviewer, some overly polished android with a voice like syrup and a smile tuned for maximum empathy, leans in.
“We understand there’s been speculation. Can you clarify the relationship between yourself and Gladiator Blastaar?”
Valtron’s shoulders flex. I speak before he can open that beautiful, infuriating mouth.
“Yes. We had a past. Years ago. We were involved. It was brief, intense... complicated.”
“And the child?”
I inhale. Let it out slow.
“Her name is Ripley. She’s my daughter.”
A pause.
“Is Blastaar her father?”
Another breath. “We’re... figuring things out. There’s a lot of history there. But our priority is her safety. Not spectacle.”
The android tilts her head. “You vanished from media. Was that related?”
I blink. “No comment.”
She smiles like I just told her where the bodies are buried.
“Understood.”
The rest is noise. PR talking points. Carefully chosen language about boundaries, family, and the difference between public lives and private truths.
We finish in fifteen minutes.
Valtron doesn’t say a single word.
He just holds my hand under the table, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles.
When we walk out of the studio, he squeezes once.
I let go.
And I try to believe the worst is over.
But I know better.
It happens three hours later.
My compad glitches.
Not the normal kind. Not the drunk-UI kind.
The Combine kind.
