Because I know what I did. I know what I am.
I finish my shift without crying. Without losing my head. I scrub the rails, polish the console — the motions automatic, but sharp. Controlled. Measured. Like the way I held that broom-handle. Like the way I hold myself now.
Afterwards, I don’t go back to my bunk right away. Instead — I drift through the human living quarter. Lights low, people asleep or half-quiet in the corridors. I lean against a bulkhead near the window port. The view of Storder’s forest moon hangs silent outside — green canopy, dark silhouettes, distant glint of the atmosphere when the gas-giant overhead pulses.
I taste bitterness — salt and resentment.
Am I just a trophy? A proof that Vokar can break the rules? A shiny token to show his power?
I close my eyes. I think of the bruises, the soreness, the wet print of bone-plate on my ribs. I think of the way he looked when I knocked him — laughter and blood and heat — and the way he reached out to me after. Not as owner. As equal. Maybe.
But inside the windows of this ship, inside the eyes of those who roam its halls — I’m a pet. A prize. A gamble. A risk.
I rub my palms over my uniform sleeves. The fabric feels coarse beneath my fingers — too scratchy, too thin. I think of the cloak he gave me. Heavy-lined, warm, protective. Not armor. Just… shelter.
I close my fingers over the fabric of my uniform. I whisper to the empty corridor.
“This ismybody. My scars. My blood. My fear.”
I don’t know if I believe myself. But I repeat it. Because maybe repeating makes it true.
The hum of engines drifts through the walls. I press my ear — life-support, recycle valves, distant boots. The ship breathes cold.
I press a hand to my ribs again. The bruise pulses. It hurts. But it reminds me I’m alive. I’m human. Fragile. Flesh.
Maybe that’s what frightens them.
I straighten. I step away from the window. I walk.
Because maybe strength isn’t about weapons. Or armor. Or bone-spurs.
Maybe it’s about claiming space. In a world built to hide small things.
I reach the mess-hall door. The metal hums under my fingers as I push it open. Steam rises from trays, smells of stale food and recycled air. A group of officers stand near the ration table. They glance my way. A flicker. A pause. But this time — not sneer. Not laugh. Just silence.
I don’t watch to see if they talk when I turn away. I don’t care.
I carry the tray to the drop-off point. I rinse my hands. I catch my reflection in a polished panel — green eyes, hair pulled back, uniform neat. I look… solid. Grounded.
I taste resolve. Bitter, strong.
I walk back to the living quarters. The corridors echo with late-shift hums, distant chatter, and the lull of footsteps.
I slip off the uniform jacket near the bunk. I don’t feel like wearing the cloak yet. Not tonight.
I lie on the mattress — thin, firm, cold metal lining — and close my eyes.
The ache in my body throbs. The bruise burns faintly. My mind replays the whispers, the laughter, the cold sneers, the sideways glances.
But beneath it, a different pulse: pride. Quiet, stubborn, alive.
I breath soft. Mist in the recycled air.
I whisper to the dark.
“I’m not a pet.”
I don’t know if I’m ready to mean it. But maybe — for the first time — I believe I can.
