At the door, I stop. The room is quiet. No red warning on the wall. No panic in my stomach. No counting what I have left. Only the sharp edge of leaving and the bigger edge of whatever waits beyond it.
I wrap one hand around the strap of my bag, open the door, and step out.
Mars does not try to stop me. But for the first time in years, it does not own the next thing that happens to me either.
Chapter 6
Keandra
The liaison office is quieter than it was yesterday. There are fewer women in the waiting area now. Only a handful of seats are filled. A child sleeps stretched across two chairs while his mother watches the entry doors like she expects someone to change their mind and throw them both back out. Two girls who look like sisters sit with their hands locked together too tightly. Another woman sits very straight with a small case in her lap and a face that says she has already decided she will not cry in public, no matter what happens next.
The air smells cold and filtered. Clean in the way Mars rarely is unless money is involved.
I check in at the front desk and get directed to a private terminal where they verify my identity again. A guard scans my bag. A clerk checks the time, then my face, then the contract file tied to my wrist tag.
“Your transport departs within the hour,” the clerk says. “You’ll receive a final legal review on board.”
On board. The words move through my stomach like a cold hand. Leaving the district felt real. Paying the rent felt real.Buying food felt real. But this is different. This is the point where the city itself starts falling away behind me.
They give me a temporary pass card and escort me through a secured corridor to a smaller departure platform attached to the upper side of the complex. I have never been on this level before. The walls are smooth and dark. The lighting comes from narrow white strips instead of the flickering yellow utility bulbs in the lower districts. The floor hums faintly under my boots.
By the time the corridor opens onto the dock, I already feel like I am starting to turn into what this contract says I am. Not a poor girl from the lower blocks anymore. A transferred asset. A wife under contract. Something moved cleanly and quietly from one system to another.
The shuttle waiting at the dock is not huge, but it is polished in a way that makes everything around it look shabby. Black hull. Silver markings. No patched plating. No freight dents like the haulers I sometimes saw over the market lanes. This one is sleek. Official. Expensive. Wealth in the shape of machinery.
A man stands at the base of the ramp speaking to two attendants. He turns when I approach.
He is older than I expected. Not frail. Not soft. Just past the age where males still look eager to prove their strength every second. Silver threads mark his temples. His coat is fitted and formal. His posture is straight. Everything about him says authority without effort.
His gaze lands on me, steady and assessing, then drops to the pass card clipped to my coat.
“Keandra Vale,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I am Marat Veylor.”
The name clicks at once. Matchmaker. The title has been all over the documents I signed without me ever stopping to picture the man behind it. Standing in front of me now, he does not looklike someone who wanders poor sectors handing out dreams. He looks like someone who manages transactions that change lives and does not pretend they are anything softer than that.
“You are punctual,” he says.
I cannot tell whether it is approval.
“I didn’t want to miss it.”
“No,” he says, and one corner of his mouth shifts very slightly. “I imagine you did not.”
He gestures toward the ramp.
“Come. We will speak on the shuttle.”
Inside, the air is warmer than the dock. The main cabin holds only a few seats, each one enclosed enough to feel private without being comfortable. This is not a passenger shuttle full of noise and movement. It feels more like a transfer vehicle. Something built to carry important people or important contracts. Maybe both.
They show me to a seat near a small table. An attendant stows my bag overhead before I can insist on keeping it with me. Marat sits opposite me and activates a privacy field around our section. A low hum starts up. The rest of the cabin blurs slightly at the edges. Still there, but distant.
I fold my hands together to stop myself from touching everything. The seat beneath me is softer than the bed in my room ever was. The buckle fits properly. The walls are clean enough to catch the light. Even the water on the table beside me looks different from ordinary water. Clearer. Colder. Condensation beads silver along the cup. I almost laugh at myself for noticing.
Marat studies a tablet for a moment, then sets it down.
