I’m on a ship with a man who looks like he eats nightmares for breakfast, headed to a planet known for weaponized murder pageantry, and I’ve lied myself right into the lead role of a suicide op I don’t evenunderstand.
And worse?
He thinks I’m some kind of mercenary/assassin.
Me, of all people.
I almost laugh. It bubbles in my throat, brittle and wild. I slap a hand over my mouth before it can escape.
Because if I start laughing now, I won’t stop. I’ll spiral, collapse, combust.
I back away from the mirror and press my spine to the wall. The cold bites through my shirt, a shock that helps me think. Helps me breathe.
Okay. Okay. Options.
Option one: Tell the truth.
Confess. Right now. Walk back out there, find him in the cockpit or the armory or wherever he’s pacing, and say, “Hey, turns out I’m not the Butcher. I was just trying to survive a dare and then a slap and then… you. My bad.”
Right.
Becausethatwouldn’t get me spaced.
Option two: Try to escape.
Leave. Somehow. Wait until he’s asleep or distracted, find an escape pod or a cargo bay exit or… something. Anything.
Except.
He’s a soldier. Or something worse. And this ship? It’s not built for comfort. It’s built for lockdowns and kill switches and hardened perimeter codes. I saw it in the way he moved through it—efficient, instinctive, territorial.
If I run, he’ll know.
And if he knows, I’m done.
I slide down the wall until I’m crouched on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees like I can hold myself together if I just squeeze tight enough. My throat stings. My brain’s running loops of every bad choice I’ve ever made.
This might be the crown jewel.
And then?—
Cynna’s voice, sharp and bright, cuts through the static.
Be bold, babe.
She’d said it at the club. Said it again when I hesitated in the mirror before leaving my apartment. Said it when I tried to back out of drinks, of dancing, of risk.
Be bold.
I close my eyes.
I hear her like she’s standing over me now, one hand on her hip, one finger in my face.No more hiding. No more waiting for the world to give you permission. Want something? Take it. Scared? Do it anyway.
The ache in my chest tightens. Not fear. Something else.
Shame. Grief. Longing.
I’m tired of being small.
