ROXY
The air’s warm here. Thicker than Kaerva’s brittle bite, but not oppressive. I can feel it on my skin—like water that doesn’t cling, just passes through and leaves a trace of something alive.
Our safehouse is tucked behind a rust-colored ridge system outside a decommissioned mining settlement—no population grid, no long-range scans. Just enough structure left to spoof the signals. Just enough distance from Syfer’s pulse to breathe.
I watch Vrok move through the main room, checking window seals, double-confirming entry protocols like he hasn’t already swept the place twice. He’s methodical, like always. Quiet in the way predators are quiet when there’s nothing left to chase.
We’re not hiding. Not exactly. But we’re also not ready to be seen.
Not yet.
I drop my pack by the couch—low leather, worn smooth with time—and stretch out my legs. My shoulders ache from the last op. Some of that’s muscle. Some of it’s weight.
The job went clean—good intel, smart entry, extraction by the numbers. No body count. No firestorm. And nobody said the Butcher’s name once.
That’s new.
Good new.
Vrok finishes whatever check he’s pretending he needed and glances over. “You’re quiet.”
“You’re twitchy,” I shoot back, but there’s no heat in it.
He huffs a laugh and walks over, sitting on the floor in front of me like a mountain folding into itself. The bond’s steady between us. Not flaring. Not dormant. Just… present. A pressure and warmth, low and constant, like gravity where I didn’t have it before.
I drag a hand through my hair and let my eyes trace him—his posture, his focus, the way he still watches me with caution, not because he doubts me, but because he’s waiting. Listening.
Good.
Because I’ve got something to say.
“I want to talk,” I start.
His head dips once. “I’m listening.”
“No, I mean… I need you tojustlisten. Not fix. Not interrupt. Not ‘yes, but.’ Just listen and confirm when I’m done.”
He nods again. Slower this time. “Understood.”
I exhale. My heartbeat is louder than it should be. Dumb. I’ve killed men for less than what I’m about to do—put down shields. Name my limits. That always felt like weakness before.
Now? It feels like survival.
“I need autonomy,” I say, eyes locked on his. “Not just the illusion of it. I know we’re partners now. I know you respect me. But I need you to understand that when it comes to my choices—how I fight, when I rest, what I risk—that’s mine.”
Vrok doesn’t move.
I press on. “No more shielding me by omission. No more making plans for my safety without me at the damn table. I want a say in everything we walk into.”
He says nothing, which is good. It means he’s holding space. But I can feel the bond stretch—not resistance, just reaction.
“I also need boundaries respected. If I call a stop, you stop. If I say no, you don’t push. I trust you with my body, my life, my reputation. You don’t get to wield that without asking.”
The words feel like truth cracking through old armor. My throat tightens. I breathe through it.
“And when we plan future jobs,” I continue, voice steadier now, “we do it together. Schedules. Conditions. Exit strategies. No more off-book martyr missions. No more solo contracts.”
I pause. One last breath.
