I kiss the top of her head. The armor plate beneath my hand is cold. “Yes, you do.”
We sit… side by side, no script, no cameras. Just us. The trailer rumble in the background. The studio lights dim for the next take.
When the call-out comes, I rise. “We should get back.” I pull my jacket on.
She rises too. “Thanks, for understanding.”
I nod. “Anytime.”
Later, I leave the set with Pepper because it’s a late shoot and I offered again to babysit. Liora gave me a small, grim smile and handed me a juice pouch for Pepper. I carry her across the lot, her hand gripping my finger. The engine drones of passing hover-cars. The smell of hot tarmac, metal, and night.
Pepper kicks her legs, giggles when a drone flies close. I shield her with my jacket. “Watch the sky, little star.” She tilts her head. “Are you a star?” I grin. “Yeah. Spread your wings.”
She laughs. “You have wings too, Gyon!”
We walk under flickering street-lamps. My boots echo. She hums a lullaby. My lullaby. I nearly swear. I almost stop her. Instead I ask: “Want to try the hover-rack tomorrow?”
She nods eyes bright. “Yes.”
I ruffle her hair. I feel hope flicker. I taste it in the air—metal and faint ozone. I feel something like family forming.
That night, I don’t sleep. I lie on the back deck of my temporary quarters—studio housing—watching the stars bleed into dawn. I inhale the night air, smell the faint trace of ash from nearby scrub fires, feel the stillness in my bones.
I repeat it like a mantra: I earned patience. I earned time. I’ll earn her truth.
And I will.
CHAPTER 31
LIORA
Isit at the kitchen table long after the lights in the rest of the apartment have gone dim. The only glow is the soft loop of the holo-monitor perched beside me, its screen casting pale cyan reflections across my face. I’m supposed to be reviewing tomorrow’s scene—dialogue, blocking, wardrobe—but I can’t. My fingers hover over the keyboard, eyes burning red from too many hours under studio fluorescents, stomach knotting with something stronger than exhaustion.
Pepper’s asleep in the other room. The faint hum of her image-inducer pulses like a heartbeat. I close my eyes and taste bitterness—coffee I didn’t finish, jam still on my lips from the snack she demanded earlier, guilt inescapable.
Guilt. It’s been eating me alive for days. Every time Gyon picks up Pepper at craft services, her legs dangling over one arm, his smile low and content, the lie tears me. Every time she laughs at his joke—her laugh, full and sharp like mine when I try to joke—it scorches like acid. Because she’s his. I know it. He knows it. But I lied.
I type. Then delete.
“Gyon—I need to tell you…”
Then delete.
“Pepper, you are what unites us…”
Delete.
“I’m sorry I hid you.”
Delete.
A dozen confessions I wrote and erased. Each one heavier than the last. Because the truth isn’t protecting Pepper. It’s protecting me. Protecting myself from his betrayal. Protecting the idea of him without the risk of losing him again.
I lean back. The chair creaks. The city muffled outside the window—traffic, hovercars, distant music. The smell of jam on my fingers, the hum of the inducer, the taste of cold coffee. All of it converges.
I stand and walk into the living room where Pepper’s toy ship sits half-built, blocks strewn across the carpet. I pick up a piece, run my thumb over the scratches, the plastic worn smooth. I remember when I first tucked her in after the crash, when I pressed the inducer to her temple, promising her safety and hiding, hiding always.
A knock on the door startles me. I freeze. Then I walk across the room and open it. It’s my editor—Zara—two hours late, with a thick file in her hand.
