Because the alternative is screaming.
And I don’t think he’d like that.
CHAPTER 9
VROK
She’s quiet—too quiet.
For someone with a rep like hers, I expect more… presence. Not noise. Not bravado. Gravity. Something that fills space just by standing in it. The kind of quiet that shifts a room’s temperature. But she’s not giving me that. Not fear. Not arrogance. Just a flatline of cool, like she’s conserving energy for a fight she already decided won’t be worth the sweat.
The ship hums around us, steady in the silence between bursts of navigation updates and engine thrum. Hyperspace flattens the stars outside the viewport into long white scars, the kind that remind you nothing’s permanent—especially not people.
I glance sideways. She hasn’t moved since buckling in. Hands still, spine loose, shoulders set like she’s waiting on a bus, not screaming across the galaxy toward a blood-soaked warzone.
“You ever hit Kaerva?” I ask, voice low, more vibration than volume.
She blinks. Once. “Mm-hm.”
Not a yes. Not a no.
Just a placeholder that tells me nothing.
Her body’s too loose. Like she’s a passenger in every sense. But that doesn’t track. If she’s the Butcher—and I’ve already decided she is—she should be more alert. More calculating. Not this... casually unreadable.
“You know what we’re flying into,” I say.
She lifts her chin, jaw setting. “I like a challenge.”
I snort. “This isn’t a challenge. It’s a statement.”
That finally lands. She tilts her head a notch, like I’ve just said something worth parsing. “What kind of statement?”
I thumb the nav console, pulling up a slow-spin wireframe of Kaerva. “Controlled territory. Curated threats. Large Marj doesn’t need armies. She builds myths. Kills them, too.”
Her eyebrows arch slightly, but her posture stays the same.
I go on. “She picks her targets. Picks how they die. And she makes sure the whole sector sees it. She doesn’t just destroy you—she turns you into a cautionary tale.”
Roxy leans back, arms folded, eyes lazy. “So she’s dramatic.”
I narrow my eyes. “She slaughtered an ex-ghost unit and strung their bones from a signal tower for six days. Didn’t blink when the U.P. threatened sanctions. Called it ‘decorative deterrence.’”
Roxy lets out a low whistle. “Ballsy.”
“She carved a merc’s confirmed kill count into his chest. With a welding iron.”
“Efficient and informative.”
There’s a flicker in my jaw. Not quite a smile. But close. She’s not rattled. Not even phased. Either she’s built from the same broken metal I am—or she’s faking it so well I want to learn how.
“You think that’s funny?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I think anyone who makes art out of violence is compensating.”
I raise a brow. “For what?”
“Tiny teeth. Small brain. Probably bad shoes.”
