“Liora,” she says softly. She steps in. “We need to talk.”
I close the door carefully. “What now?” I ask, tone hollow.
She sets the file on the couch. “The IHC… they’re asking questions.”
I stiffen. My stomach drops. I walk over. The cold plastic of the holo-tablet she carries presses under my fingertips. “Which department?”
“The citizenship verification. Alien-occupied sectors. The Reaper connection. This isn’t about your film—they came across that old incident.” She glances at the living room, at the toyship. “They know you had a guest. A non-human male in the apartment.”
My chest seizes. I swallow hard. “How did they?—”
“Doesn’t matter. They want you to answer.” Her voice is gentle but firm.
I shut my eyes. “I’ll handle it.”
Zara nods. “I believe you will. But you need to brace yourself.”
I nod, but my legs feel weak. Guilt presses my throat tight. Because now the lie is no longer safe. It is exposure.
Zara stands. “I’ll let you deal with it. Call me if you need help.”
She leaves.
I close the door, slide down the wall. I lean my head against it. I taste metal in my mouth.
I think of Gyon. Of Pepper. Of everything I held together with whisper-threads and fear.
I rise. I go into Pepper’s room. I sit on the floor and pull her into my lap. Her small arms wrap around me. I can smell her hair—strawberry jam and childhood. I kiss the top of her head.
“You’re safe,” I whisper. “Mommy will protect you.”
She murmurs and drifts back to sleep. I sit there, feeling the weight of the lie so much that every breath is a labor.
I stand, turn off the light, leave the door cracked so moonlight drips in. I walk back to the kitchen. I pick up the coffee cup—dry now, ring of lipstick still visible. I set it in the sink. The taste of cold and regret clings.
The screen in front of me flickers. Tomorrow’s scene is ready: “Reunion in the tunnels.” My character will run into her lover, the Reaper. The lights will flash. The rubble will fall again. The camera will roll.
I imagine Gyon’s face in the scene. His real face. The moment he kisses me. Not the actor. Not the horns. The him. I shiver.
I open the screen and begin typing again:
“Scene 47: ADRSTRICT—Re-orientation.”
But my head aches. The cursor blinks. Words fail me.
I close the laptop.
I walk to the window and lean my forehead against the glass. The city’s lights wash against the pane. I taste cool air. I feel the vibrations of traffic. I hear a distant siren, a hum of hover lanes, the faint chant of late-night laughter.
And I consider: I’m protecting Pepper. Yes. But I’m protecting more than that. Myself. I’m protecting my image. My hope. The fragile bubble I built with this contract, with this child, with the man I refused to let in.
I take a bracing breath. I feel the wind press against the glass. I shut my eyes.
I tell myself: Tomorrow I will tell him. Tomorrow I will open my mouth and say his name. Say her name. Sayhis child’s name. Tell the truth.
But I don’t. I blink once. Twice. And I turn away.
Because fear is heavy. Fear steals air. Fear builds walls. And I don’t want to lose him. Not again. In spite of the odds, Gyon is proving me wrong. Proving he’s not a detriment to Pepper, but a boon. Pepper is alive in a way I haven’t dared allow myself to be: vibrant, joyful, unstoppable. Her laughter cuts across the set today like a rifle shot. She slides down the stair-prop at lunch, sneakers squeaking, hair flopping, and she calls out to Gyon, “Come on, Funny?Man with Sharp?Teeth!” He flashes her a grin—it’s half predator, half proud dad—and she beams like she owns half the world.
