I reach him. He doesn't move. Doesn't defend himself. Just stands there, seven feet of alien predator, and lets me put the blade against his throat.
The edge bites. Blue blood wells against the metal—darker than human red, catching the dock lights.
"Hello, Astra."
His voice hasn't changed. That same resonance. The sound that used to make me feel safe.
"Miss me?"
I press harder. More blue blood. His marks are pulsing now—bright, erratic. He's feeling everything I'm throwing at him. Rage. Grief. The specific flavor of hatred that's been aging in my chest for six years, getting sharper with time instead of duller.
His eyes don't leave mine. Ice-pale blue. Beautiful and terrible.
I could do it. Right here. Cut deep enough and he'd bleed out in under a minute. No one would stop me, half the station knows what happened on Sigma-9. Knows he left me. Knows what that cost.
My hand's shaking.
He sees it. Of course he sees it. He's probably feeling it through his sensing—the tremor in my resolve, the sick want underneath the rage.
I step back. Force myself. Professional.
Sheathe the knife.
His blood is on my hand. I don't wipe it off.
"Welcome home," I say. My voice is steady. Dead. The tone I use when I've given up on something.
Or when I'm pretending to.
Behind him, Zane appears. Takes in the scene—the blood on Dexter's throat, the blood on my hand, the space between us that feels like vacuum.
He doesn't comment. Just: "Dexter. You're taking over military operations. Astra runs security. You'll need to coordinate."
Coordinate.
The word hits like a fist.
Dexter's mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. "Of course."
I feel the words like a blade between my ribs.
Later. My office. The blood on my fingers has dried to a blue-black crust.
I should wash it off. Should sterilize the knife. Should write the incident report about threatening a commanding officer in front of witnesses.
I'm staring at my hands instead.
Six years. I've had six years to prepare for this moment. Six years of training, of becoming someone who doesn't need rescue, doesn't need anyone.
Six years of hating him.
My console chimes. Message from Zane:The Vex have a new operative in-system. Intelligence suggests connections to the Sigma-9 incident. You and Dexter will investigate. Together.
Sigma-9.
The mission. The betrayal. The ninety seconds he spent calculating whether I was worth saving.
Someone sold us out that day. Someone gave our position, our timing, our extraction coordinates. Half the team died. I was taken.
