“It’s not,” I say immediately.
She doesn’t argue.
She just looks at me like she knows better than to make promises the universe loves to break.
“I need you to come back,” she says.
“I will.”
“Don’t say it like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” I admit. “But it’s mandatory.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her mouth. “Figures.”
I step back before I lose my nerve. Before I decide to burn the entire command structure to the ground and damn the consequences.
I finish donning my armor.
Piece by piece, the war version of me locks back into place. Plates slide over muscle. Seals hiss shut. The weight settles onto my shoulders like an old, unwelcome friend. The servos sync, the systems hum, and with every second I feel the distance between us growing.
When I turn back to her, she’s watching me like she’s imprinting the image onto her bones.
“You look terrifying,” she says quietly.
“Good,” I reply. “That means they’ll think twice.”
She reaches out, touches the edge of my chestplate. Just once. Then she pulls her hand back like it burns.
The door chimes.
Once.
Twice.
They’re ready.
I hesitate at the threshold, then look back at her one last time.
“I’m not done with you,” I say.
Her chin lifts. “You’d better not be.”
I open the door.
The hallway smells like sterilizer and fresh morning air. Lazarus stands a respectful distance away, eyes averted, giving us privacy he absolutely understands the value of.
I step out.
The door slides shut behind me with a soft, final sound.
And for the first time in a very long time, the war doesn’t feel like where I belong—it just feels like where I’m being sent.
The shuttle portsmells like hot metal, fuel vapor, and inevitability.
That’s the only way I can describe it.
Engines whine overhead—short-range troop carriers cycling through preflight, dropships settling into their cradles with hydraulic groans that rattle my bones. The air vibrates constantly, a low, omnipresent hum that crawls up my spine and sets my instincts on edge. Every sound saysmovement.Departure.No turning back.
