I jab the screen. “Here. Service lift near Medbay Nine. I can route through the internal sanitation schedules—jump into the maintenance ducts while no one's watching. Get to the contact, get the gear, get back before the next surveillance cycle resets.”
He nods. “You’ll need a scrambler.”
“I’ve got one.”
“You’ll need a weapon.”
“I’ve got that too.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Since when?”
I don’t answer. Just unzip the inner seam of my boot and pull out a tiny, compact slugthrower. Primitive. Loud. Ugly.
He studies it. “That’s not regulation.”
“Neither is this entire conversation.”
He blinks. Once. “You keep surprising me.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Maybe I’ll live long enough to do it again.”
The moment stretches between us. Not tense. Not soft either. Just something waiting to be named.
“I still think we should go together,” I say.
“And I still think that increases risk.”
I fold my arms. “I’m not going to argue with you about this.”
“Then don’t.”
I stare at him. “We leave together. Or not at all.”
This time, he doesn’t argue.
Just meets my gaze with that burning steadiness that used to feel like danger and now feels like a vow.
“Understood.”
I nod once.
We both glance up at the same time—reflex more than intention—as the overhead lights stutter.
Just a flicker.
Then another.
And then the quiet, unmistakable whine of internal lockdown codes initiating.
Tatek goes still. His eyes narrow. “They’re starting early.”
I feel it before I see it. That subtle shift in air pressure, the hum in the walls deepening as security overrides begin cascading through the lower decks. The station is preparing to lock us in place like insects in amber.
I step closer to him.
“We still have time,” I whisper.
“Not much.”
