I walk forward. I don’t look sideways. I don’t smile. I don’t hesitate.
“Hey! Authority!” A security drone hovers above. “Identify?—”
I raise one hand. The scar under my sleeve tingles. “Gyon.”
The drone scans me. The prisms blink. “Gyon--Genetic scans indicate you are a Reaper, and have no legal status on an IHC world. It would seem you are in violation?—”
I step toward it. My voice low. “I don’t care.”
The drone backs off. People clear. I feel their gazes—fear, awe, curiosity. I smell sweat, cheap perfume, engine fumes. My ribs ache. My heart roars. I carry history and promise on this landing pad as if it’s a weapon strapped to my back.
A comm-buzz in my ear: a Solari transmitter I pressed before liftoff. Tayani’s voice, calm. “May you find what you seek.”
I close my eyes for a second and nod. “I will.”
CHAPTER 27
LIORA
Istep onto the studio set and the smell hits me first—cheap smoke machines, stale coffee, and that unmistakable scent of synthetic fabric rubbed raw. My character is supposed to be terrified of the “Reaper” villain. I glance over and see him: Kane DeSoto, chest puffed, plastic armor clinking, horns wobbling dangerously like they’ll fall off and bonk him in the skull.
I suppress a grin. It’s hard to be terrified when your nemesis looks like a budget cosplay gone wrong.
“You shall fear me, human!” he snarls, his voice echoing in the oversized boots of the crew. “The Reaper’s rage shall scorch the heavens!”
I tighten my grip on the script—which I insisted we call a “draft” even though I have zero control over the final cut. I’m supposed to tremble. Instead, I just feel tired.
“Please…” I say, forcing my voice to shake. “Spare me.”
“Cut!” Miles Maximus, our director, roars from above the monitors. He’s perched like a hawk, vibrating with caffeine and wild energy. “Brilliant! But more terrified, Liora! Look like you’ve just seen the end of everything. Kane, give me vulnerability. Make me feel the abyss!”
Kane breaks character to adjust his crotch plate. “Got it, boss. Abyss. Vulnerability.”
I walk to the edge of the set to grab my water. A snack pouch rustles to my left. Pepper sits just off-camera on a prop crate, her feet dangling. She’s wearing the tiny image inducer strapped to her temple, hidden by a messy bun. It hums softly, masking her true nature, keeping her eyes a safe, human brown.
She watches Kane wobble around. She leans toward the crew photographer. “Is that my real dad?”
The photographer snickers. I freeze, shooting her a warning look. She just grins, jam on her cheek, blissfully unaware of how dangerous that question is.
“Five minute reset!” the AD yells.
I kneel beside Pepper. “Hey. Be good.”
“I am good,” she says, kicking her heels against the crate. “But the horn man looks silly.”
“He’s an actor, bug. It’s pretend.”
“You look scared, though,” she says, studying my face.
“That’s acting, too.”
Is it? Or is it just the memory of the real Maze clawing its way out?
“Action!” Miles yells.
I step back into the lights. Fog rolls in. Kane strides forward again, his plastic scythe squeaking as it swivels.
“Your screams are but an echo!” Kane shouts, raising a fist.
