“I think it was uneven.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“To them, it is.”
I shake my head.
“You’ve saved people since,” I say. “You’ve stopped worse things. I’ve seen it already.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You pulled civilians out on Horus IV,” I continue. “You didn’t abandon everyone. You made a choice that protected the most lives.”
“And it cost others.”
“That’s war.”
“That’s cowardice.”
“That’s triage.”
His eyes narrow.
“You think that absolves it?”
“No,” I say. “I think it contextualizes it.”
He studies me like I’ve said something dangerous.
“You escalate because you think if you’re always the biggest threat, you’ll never be cornered like that again,” I add. “You think if you control the violence, it won’t control you.”
The silence stretches.
He doesn’t deny it.
“And you’re wrong,” I say gently. “Because you’re still reliving it.”
He exhales slowly.
The tension in his shoulders finally fractures—not violently, not dramatically, but enough.
Without another word, he turns to the main console.
He moves with mechanical precision, shutting down secondary systems, dimming lights, cycling internal security.
The ship’s hum lowers. The ambient glow softens.
He doesn’t look at me while he does it.
When he finishes, he lowers himself into the pilot’s chair and just sits there.
Hands resting on his thighs. Eyes fixed on nothing.
I step closer, but I don’t touch him.
For once, there’s nothing sharp in the air between us.
Just quiet.
