They see a unit. A method. A precision tool. And I’m proud to be part of it.
Not for glory.
Forpurpose.
For her.
Forus.
CHAPTER 40
ROXY
The scanner chirps softly.
Not the urgent kind. Not the red-light scream of arterial bleeds or toxin surges. Just a soft, steady confirmation ping. The medbay is quiet—dim lights, antiseptic scent humming beneath sterilized air. I sit back against the cushioned panel, shirt loose at the collar, boots unlaced. The med-tech doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me, then down at the pad again.
And then she nods.
That’s it.
That’s all it takes to flip my entire goddamn reality on its axis.
I blink, once. Not in shock. Not in fear. Just—processing. There’s no sharp intake of breath, no sudden jolt. It settles over me like the slow thickening of atmosphere when you drop into gravity after too long in zero. Familiar, but weighty.
She hands me the report. “It’s early,” she says. “But stable. No complications on scan. You’ll want to update your primary with the developmental marker timelines. You’re... about eight weeks.”
“Vakutan hybrid?”
“Confirmed,” she says. “Viable bond. No rejection indicators.”
I exhale through my nose.
Of course not.
Vrok’sin the command cabin when I find him. Console lit, maps and contractor summaries on standby. He’s bent over logistics, sleeves rolled up, thick arms flexed with the way he leans into the screen like it owes him answers. His jaw moves faintly—he’s muttering at the data again. Probably rerouting fuel reserves through the sub-relays. It’s what he does when he can’t sleep.
I stop in the doorway. Watch him for a beat.
He looks good. Focused. Steady. Strong in a way that isn’t just muscle. The kind of strength that lives in choices made, not wars survived.
I step forward. “You got a second?”
His head lifts immediately. “Always.”
He reads me in half a heartbeat. I see it—the shift behind his eyes. The way he straightens without even realizing it. Like some part of him is wired tobraceevery time I enter a room and lead with that tone.
“You hurt?” he asks, already halfway to his feet.
I shake my head. “No. Not that kind of update.”
His brow furrows.
I move closer, slide the datapad across the console to him.
He takes it. Glances down. Scans.
Stops.
