“Cancel.” I say simply.
“Cancel what?” His tone shifts instantly—wire-tight.
“The strike we planned. At dawn.”
Silence. I taste metal in my mouth. The coldness. I breathe through my nose.
“You’re serious?” he finally asks.
“Yes.”
“When you walk away from who youwere, you can’t keep the same weapons, same tactics.”
I close my eyes. The whistle of the ventilation system above me sounds like the wind through an empty ship hull.
“I’m not walking away because I’m tired. I’m doing it because I have to—because what I’m building has to stand on something better than fear.”
He doesn’t speak. Then: “You sure you can afford that window?”
“Define ‘afford.’”
“Because enemies don’t wait. They don’t forgive the soft. They remember who felt the pain—and come knocking when you drop your guard.”
I drop the comm-link into my hand. “I know.”
He exhales. “Don’t forget—kids watch everything. They mimic. They trust. Make sure your message aligns with the man you want them to see.”
I nod, though he can’t see me. “Understood.”
We disconnect. I stand there for a moment. The weight of it all presses in. I push off from the desk, pace the room. The chalkboard is still dirty from yesterday’s lessons. I rub my fingers across smears of white chalk dust—feels like the ghosts of the words I used to write. Algebras, probability matrices, strike-zone calculations. Now it’s glitter crowns and shadow puppets.
Maybe the change isn’t clean. Maybe it’s messy. But it’s what I choose.
I open my compad and begin to write. Not a text. A letter. For Ben. Just in case.
Dear Ben,
If you’re reading this, I’m not there. I’m sorry. I tried to protect you. I love you.
My rib spasms with pain. I wince, but keep writing.
I tell him about how proud I am of his cupcake costume. How brave he is. How I know his world should have been simpler, safer—and that one day I’ll make it that way. If not me, then someone who promises better. I tell him to remember kindness, to use his claws for good—even if they’re pretend.
The words feel heavy. Hard. Like I’m forging something out of grief before the grief hits. I fold the letter, seal it in a holo-envelope, and slide it into a hidden compartment in my coat. The one place I stash everything I don’t want lost.
I stay until the sun sets, the classroom turning amber as the lights flip to dusk mode. I watch as the last teachers leave, the chairs shuffle, the lockers click shut. The corridor outside goes silent.
Then I leave.
I walkinto Kairo’s apartment building. The lobby lights are dim. The smell of old carpet mixes with the scent of something floral—Kairo’s diffuser, I guess. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, the metal steps creaking under my boots. My ribs protest. The night air follows me up, cool and cavernous.
At the landing, I see her.
She’s standing at the door to her flat, body half in, half out, trembling. The hush of the hallway seems to freeze around her. The light from the corridor washes over her face—it’s pale. Eyes wide. Tears not falling yet, but the glisten of them visible.
“Kai,” I say softly.
She doesn’t respond. The door behind her is open. I take a step forward, still cautious.
