The air between us feels like wire drawn tight.
Then he nods.
“Suppose that tracks.”
Relief floods me so fast I almost choke on it. I mask it with a cough, fake and sharp. He doesn't seem to notice—or pretends not to.
“You don’t look like much,” he says, casual, like he’s commenting on weather. “But maybe that’s the trick.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to quote that on my next resume.Doesn’t look like much. Kills like a whisper.”
He huffs—almost a laugh. Almost.
I don’t relax. Can’t. Because this is all still a razor-thin line I’m walking. Every word out of my mouth is a weapon I don’t know how to use. One wrong move and I’m just another smear on a cargo bay wall.
“You got a call sign?” he asks.
Panic hits again, this time sharp and sudden.
I stall. “You don’t know it?”
He lifts a brow ridge. “Didn’t come through clean. Intel was fragmented.”
Of course it was.
I make a show of checking my nails like I’m deciding whether or not to indulge him.
Then I smirk—because smirking is easier than explaining—and say, “You can call me Echo.”
It just... pops out.
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods again, like that settles something.
“Echo,” he repeats, testing it. “That supposed to mean something?”
“Means what I leave behind,” I say before I can think better of it. “By the time they hear it, I’m already gone.”
He nods, slow. Impressed, maybe. Or just accepting.
The silence that follows feels thicker. Heavier. Like now we’re past introductions and the real test has started.
The hum of the ship evens out as we settle into the jump vector. I glance at the window again and all I see now is hyperspace—stretched starlight and that eerie stillness that comes when physics takes a backseat.
We're out. We're gone.
No turning back.
I swallow.
“What’s the landing strategy?” I ask, hoping it sounds like routine.
“Low approach. Blackout. Terrain masks. We don’t announce until it’s done.”
“Classic,” I say, like I’ve done it a hundred times.
He nods, satisfied. “Figured you’d appreciate that.”
I just nod back.
