“Then start small,” I say. “A night off duty. No armor. No spurs. Just… a walk. On the decks. Late shift. No pretenses.”
His eyes narrow — the red glow dimming, shifting. For a moment I see hunger, war-lust. Then something else. Something like... care.
He inclines his head.
“Deal.”
I don’t smile. I don’t trust this. Not yet.
But I feel the cloak — the way it rests over my shoulders — and for the first time in a long time, I think maybe Icouldtrust it.
I turn. Go to leave.
But I don’t make it two steps. He’s behind me — close. So close I feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of the cloak.
He bows low.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For telling me where to start.”
I don’t say anything. I just walk out, steady and silent, the cloak swaying.
And behind me — I feel him watch.
I’m wipingdown the mess-hall tables — again — when I catch Jorko’s voice from behind.
“Got that million-dollar look,” he says, palette cloth in hand.
I freeze mid-wipe, chest tight. I don’t turn around. I don’t want him to see how my throat closes. Instead I swallow, and manage a stiff chuckle.
“Spike boy again, huh?” he nudges, all easy grin and hover-belt whirr.
My cheeks burn — warmth rising fast, creeping up my neck. I say: “Maybe so. Or maybe I’m just thinking.”
He snorts. “Thinking. Right. You know what I always say.” He folds his arms, orange vest glinting under the dimfluorescent lights. “If he wants something real, he’s gonna have to prove he’s more than a conqueror.”
I don’t answer. My fingers slip on the rag. I don’t want to lie — but I don’t want to admit what’s gnawing in me. That maybe the conqueroralready tried, buried under bone and roar and bruised sheets.
Jorko shrugs, lifts one cracked eyebrow, the limp-belt hissing lightly. “Just saying, kid. Conquerors don’t do kindness. They do raids and ruin. If he’s serious… you’ll see it. Or you won’t.”
Then he walks away, leaving me with silence, bleach-stink, and the faint echo of his words bouncing off metal walls.
I finish the shift numbly, stare down into the drainpan as the dirty water swirls away. My reflection looks tired — haunted by memory and craving and a cloak that hangs heavier every time I wear it.
That night,I lie on my bunk staring at the ceiling. The soft hum of the ship’s life-support drags behind me like a distant drum. The cloak — the one he gave me — lies folded on the chair, shadows creasing its charcoal fabric.
I don’t reach for it. Not yet.
Instead, I cradle “Bunny” against my chest — the ragged stuffed rabbit I’ve slept with since I was a child in the orphanage. One ear’s been torn for ages, the seam gone long before the war. I press the flat, worn fabric to my cheek and close my eyes. It smells like stale cotton and distant nights. Safe. Familiar.
My fingers trace the seam where the fabric once came apart. I remember the long nights cleaning, scrubbing, waiting for something — anything — to change. Never expecting it to be a Reaper cloak or a gamble of soft words.
The door to the corridor slides open with a hiss. I bolt upright. Heart drumming.
A shadow moves in the dim hallway light. Not steady. Hesitant. Familiar.
I slip off the bunk, press my back against the cold wall, clutching Bunny tight to my chest.
He steps inside. Quiet. No armor clank. No bone-spur whisper.
