I catch it one-handed. Leather, dark red, lined in synth fur. My favorite. Still smells faintly like ozone and blood and the spice incense Kairo used to burn when she was writing.
My chest tightens.
“How’s the tail?” Garkin asks as we walk.
“Still attached.”
“Can’t say the same for half the family. They’re eating each other out there. Dregger took the clubs. Riehl’s sniffing around the docks. Everybody wants a piece.”
I grunt. “Let them squabble.”
He stops. Looks at me sidelong. “You don’t care?”
I don’t answer. Just shrug the coat on. The weight of it settles across my shoulders like a challenge.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Whatdoyou care about then?”
I stop walking. The hallway’s empty, a long stretch of polished floor and harsh light. I meet his eyes—hard, flat, unwavering.
“I want to find her.”
Garkin goes quiet. He doesn’t need me to say the name.
“You think she’s still on Haven-7?”
“If she had any sense, she got out years ago.”
He snorts. “You’re not exactly comforting, boss.”
“She’s not like the rest of them. Never was. She walked into our club with a fake ID and eyes like green flame, talked her way past three guards, and tried to plant a mic under my damn chair.”
Garkin smirks. “Romantic.”
“She made me laugh,” I say, quieter now. “I hadn’t laughed in years.”
We walk a few more steps. My boots echo. Garkin’s make more of athunk.
“What if she doesn’t want to see you?” he asks, not unkind.
“She will.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
I stop at the airlift door. My hand hovers over the panel.
“I don’t just want her back, Gark,” I say, and the words come out rougher than I mean. “If she had a kid—if—I want to know.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: “You think she did?”
I shake my head slowly. “She looked different, right before the raid. Softer. Guarded. She wouldn’t say. I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“You think the kid’s yours?”
“I don’tknow,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to. “But if there’s even a chance…”
