Their weapons remain holstered. They never saw me coming.
The compound interior is a maze of steel and firelight. I navigate by memory—past the old cell block we used for debtors, down the forgotten mess hall where executions once played out over dinner.
I count my breaths. One. Two. Three.
Another patrol. Another three bodies.
I don’t fire the plasma pistol unless I have to. Too loud. Too bright. The blade is cleaner. More personal. And right now, I need personal.
I pass through the lower corridor and feel the shift in energy—colder, more sterile. Detainment level. There’s a hum here. Power cells lining the walls. A heartbeat beneath the floor. The League has moved operations underground—paranoid, secretive.
Cowards.
Good.
It makes this easier.
I take out the next guard mid-sentence. His comm fizzles as he gurgles on his own tongue. I drag the body into a supply alcove, strip the access key.
The door readsSector 6: Civilian Intake.The kind of euphemism you only use when you’re doing something unforgivable.
I tap the panel.
It opens.
And my world stops.
She’s there.
Kairo.
Sitting on the cold floor, back against the wall. Her wrists are bound, her cheek bruised. But her chin is lifted. Her eyes—those eyes—are sharp. Alive. Watching everything.
In her lap—Ben.
He’s curled into her side, small and brave and shaking. He looks up at her like she’s the only star left in the galaxy.
For a second, I can’t move.
My hand drops from the blade. My breath catches in my throat like I’ve been sucker punched.
She feels me before she sees me. Her head turns—slow, deliberate.
Our eyes meet.
And for the first time in days, something fragile and raw flickers between us.
She whispers my name.
NotMr. Kuraken.NotRedscale.NotJav the warhound.
Just—
“Jav.”
It breaks me open.
I take a step forward—then the alarms shriek.
