“Vrok,” she says, quiet. “Why… why aren’t you mad?”
I stare at her.
“I’mfurious,” I say. “But anger’s not useful right now.”
She swallows hard. “You’re not going to hurt me?”
My eyes narrow. “Not unless you give me a reason.”
She blinks fast. Too fast. I almost expect tears—but she doesn’t cry. She squares her shoulders, nods once, and walks past me into the hall, her spine too straight and her steps too careful.
She’s not afraid of me.
She’s afraid of what she’s become.
Good.
Fear shapes action.
And if she wants to survive Kaerva, she better learn fast.
I close the cabin door behind her and lean my forehead against it for a second longer than I mean to.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
But the mission’s not dead.
And neither is she.
I can work with that.
Even if it costs more than I want to admit.
CHAPTER 16
ROXY
The moment the ship shudders into docking position, I feel the tension coiled in my chest tighten a notch. The port sensors give off a steady pulse beneath my boots, rhythmic and cold—like the heartbeat of something artificial and ancient that doesn’t care if we’re welcome. The black-market hub is carved into the side of a derelict asteroid, crusted with retrofitted salvage rigs, old satellite dishes, and makeshift towers blinking in disjointed cadence.
It smells like ozone, burnt coolant, and people who stopped pretending to follow rules a long time ago.
Vrok stands in the entryway, adjusting the strap of the rifle slung across his back. His movements are calm, methodical, but I can feel the shift in him. This place makes him alert. It’s the kind of alert that wears quiet like a second skin.
“Stay close,” he says.
I nod, not trusting my voice. My palms are damp, but I curl them into fists and slide them into the pockets of my jacket. I’ve got no weapons, no real skills, and exactly one card left to play—the bluff.
The ramp drops with a hiss, revealing a flood of movement—gang runners, hustlers, scavengers, mercs. The dock is a layeredsprawl of rusted scaffold and open-air transactions, heavy with shouting, laughter, and the click-clack of weapons being cleaned in the open. I catch a glimpse of a bionic dog pissing against a power coupling and force myself not to flinch.
We descend.
And they notice.
Heads turn. Conversations stutter. Weapons don’t come out—not yet—but the shift in atmosphere is unmistakable.
Vrok walks like he’s done this a thousand times and hated it every one. Like he’s dared someone to stop him and always won. I match his pace, keeping just behind his left shoulder, chin up like I belong here. The eyes that land on us don’t linger on me long. They bounce off my frame like I’m a detail, background to the real threat.
But I feel them cataloging me anyway.
