We’re mid-transit on a small freighter we picked up three jobs back, refitted for speed and stealth. Clean lines. Quiet engines. No ghost pings.
She’s in the captain’s chair, legs slung casually to the side, hair up in a twist she’ll forget about in two hours and curse when it unravels mid-briefing.
“Always,” I say, and stretch. The couch groans under my weight.
“Why?” she asks.
I pause. Consider lying.
Then: “Because I still can’t believe what we’ve built. And because if I blink too long, I might miss the moment you outmaneuver a cartel boss with nothing but a raised eyebrow.”
She laughs—sharp, genuine. It pulls something warm through my chest.
“You think I need a raised eyebrow?” she says.
“No,” I say, smiling. “That’s just the prelude.”
She flicks her eyes to me now. “You realize half these clients are calling for us by name now. Not just me. Not just the Butcher.Us.”
I nod. “We’re a brand.”
“We’re a myth,” she corrects. “A controlled one.”
That lands heavier than I expect. Because she’s right. The chaos is gone. The story’s cleaner. The Butcher’s image is no longer a cloak thrown over carnage. It’s auniform—buttoned, sharpened, precise.
“What’s it feel like?” I ask. “Seeing the thing that once hunted you now work for you?”
She leans back, arms crossed. “Like I stopped running. Like Icaught it,and now I’m steering it instead of just surviving it.”
I breathe out slow. That’s the thing, right there.
It used to be about keeping her alive. Making sure the galaxy didn’t crack her open. But now? She’s ten steps ahead of the galaxy. I’m the one catching up.
And I don’t mind.
Later,after the daily systems check, we sit side-by-side in the training bay.
She’s rewrapping her hands after a light spar. I’ve got a bruise blooming on my jaw, and I can’t stop smiling.
“Hey,” she says suddenly, eyes narrowing. “What was that move you pulled back there?”
“Which one?”
“The leg sweep into the elbow choke. That wasn’t standard Vakutan form.”
I grin. “Adaptation. Borrowed it from the mercenary we took down on Ghess Prime.”
“The one with the triple-joined elbows?”
“Yeah. His mechanics were terrible. But the angle stuck in my head.”
She chuckles. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m resourceful.”
“You’re also bleeding.”
I glance down. Sure enough, a nick near my collarbone. Didn’t feel it. She’s already up, grabbing the med kit with fluid grace. There’s something intimate about it—not the healing, not the caretaking, but theattention.Like every scrape and shift matters now because we’re not trying to disappear afterward.
