“I’m not afraid of them,” I say.
“Maybe you should be.”
“Maybe you should be, if you think I’m coming back.”
For a long, sharp moment, he studies me. His face hardens. His voice drops an octave.
“You’re really turning it down?”
“Yes.”
He huffs out a slow, disappointed breath. “And what—what are you now? A schoolteacher? A volunteer? You think that changes the blood in your bones?”
I glance down at my hands—hands that once signed death orders, now bandaged from fixing a burst pipe for the kids’ showers. The irony hits me like a bruise.
“Maybe it doesn’t change the blood,” I say. “But it changes what I do with it.”
He sneers. “You sound like her.”
“Good,” I say. “Means I’m finally learning.”
Then I end the call.
The silence that follows is deafening. The hum of the holo fades. My breath echoes in the small office.
I stare at the blank screen and feel something shifting deep inside me—like old armor falling off in pieces. The urge to call him back, to accept the offer, flashes through me for a heartbeat. Then it’s gone.
I’m free.
I think.
I find Garkin in the maintenance bay twenty minutes later, hunched over a half-disassembled hover generator. He’s covered in grease, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back with a wire tie.
He looks up when I enter. “That call was them, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“You say no?”
“Yeah.”
He whistles. “Well, slap my tail and call me a saint. The legend of Jav Kuraken finally lays down his crown.”
“Don’t push it.”
He laughs, but there’s a pride there too. “So what now? You gonna retire into moral purity?”
“Close,” I say. “I’m donating my share. All of it. Every last Redscale cut.”
Garkin’s wrench slips, clanging to the floor. “You serious?”
“Every credit. Transfer it to the Haven-7 Youth Outreach program. Rebuild their dorms, get them new med units, clean equipment. No fanfare.”
He stares at me. “You sure about that? That’s a hell of a gesture.”
I meet his eyes. “Not a gesture. A debt.”
He nods slowly, lips pressed thin. “You’re really out, then.”
