“I was assessing a variable.”
She stops. Turns to face me fully.
“No,” she says quietly. “You weren’t.”
The truth sits heavy and undeniable between us.
“I am… adjusting,” I admit.
Her eyes search mine, something vulnerable flickering there. “To what?”
“To you.”
The words feel dangerous the moment they leave my mouth.
Later—back in the quiet of her quarters, the door sealed, the noise of the district reduced to a distant hum—she sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight enough to whiten her knuckles.
“I’m scared,” she says.
Not dramatic. Not pleading. Just fact.
“Of death?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve made my peace with that.” She swallows. “I’m scared of being erased. Of vanishing so completely that it’s like I never existed.”
I move closer without thinking.
“If I disappear,” she continues, voice steady but thin, “I want someone who remembers me for who I am. Not who they turned me into on paper.”
The room feels impossibly small.
I reach out.
Just once.
My fingertips brush hers.
The contact is electric—sharp, grounding, unmistakable. She doesn’t pull away.
And in that moment, with the station humming around us and the universe pressing close, I know with absolute clarity:
The bond is real.
And she feels it too.
CHAPTER 7
MARA
The walk back to my quarters feels like walking into my own disappearance.
Something’s wrong. Not in the obvious way—no sirens, no security team breathing down my neck—but in the quiet. The way the corridor lights flicker just a second too long before stabilizing. The way my compad doesn’t buzz when it should, like the air itself is holding back.
When I reach my door, the override pad doesn’t chirp. It glows faint green. Unlocked.
My chest tightens.
I know I locked it.
