I feel the glint of his armor near my ear. I hear his breath steady. I smell the fake smoke and his real scent blended—ozone and leather. I feel the armour press against my back. I turn. His eyes—this time not through a visor—are on me.
It ends. The director yells “Cut!” The crew cheers. Gyon steps back. I don’t move. I feel him behind me. My heart pounds. The taste of success is sour.
I walk off stage before Gyon can speak. I avoid saying goodbye. I ride the hover-bus back with Pepper. She’s curled in my arms, half-asleep, snacks in hand. The low hum lulls her. I wrap a blanket around her shoulders.
“Mommy,” she murmurs. “Am I safe now?”
My throat closes. I kiss her temple. “Yes, baby. You always are.”
She yawns, head lolling. I carry her to the car, engine whine low. I breathe in the cold night air as we drive home—metal hiss, faint song from a hover-music station that leaks into the car.
When we get home, I carry her inside. I set her on the couch. She props up a pillow and murmurs, “I like Funny?Man with Sharp?Teeth.”
I force a grin. “He’s just Gyon.”
She nods and falls asleep.
I stand in the half-lit living room. The coffee cup is empty. The contract is on the table. The looming IHC inquiry is waiting. The secret is sharper than ever.
I close my eyes and whisper to myself: “Tomorrow I’ll tell him.”
But I don’t.
Again I wait. And I hate myself for it.
CHAPTER 32
GYON
The sun’s barely above the horizon when I rise. My boots touch the rooftop tiles before the air warms. The city stretches in blush-pink light, wind towers hum faint in the distance, and I feel that old compulsion — sharpen the muscles, let blood flow, clear the noise. My fist curls around the training bar. I draw a breath of steel-cold morning air, taste the tang of ozone, feel the early gravity settle in my bones.
But then I come down from the roof. I trade the fight for something softer. Domesticity. Ridiculous. Alien. Perfect.
A knock at the studio child care pod locks in my routine. I step inside and there she is—Pepper—her blonde curls bouncing, bright sneakers askew, the inducer humming under her jacket. She looks up. Gold-brown eyes. Slight snarl in her lip when she’s making mischief.
“Hey, Gyon,” she chirps. “Ready for breakfast?”
I grin. “Born ready.”
I hoist her onto my shoulders. The pod smells of wiped walls, warm milk, the whine of overlooked commercials on half-dead screens. The other kids stare. I feel that glare. I’m not one of them. I carry Pepper, high, she kicks the air, giggles.
“Kick the orbit!” she shouts.
I raise my arm. “Take off!” I throw an imaginary punch upward—she squeals.
The caregivers grumble. I ignore. I lift her down and crouch. “What do you want for shoes today? Space boots or sneaky-stealth sneakers?”
She ponders. “Space boots!”
We walk out to the costume car, the smell of hot rubber on the lot, engine whine, hovercar hiss. I open the door. She hops in. “Mommy’s set! She’ll be proud.”
I nod. “Let’s make her proud.”
Later, lunchtime on set. The hum of air-conditioning, bleeps of monitors, the scent of reheated pasta. Liora’s across the table, bright light haloing her hair. I pick at a sandwich. She nudges my plate. “You want jam?”
I roll my eyes. “Jam? You’re spoiling her.”
She shrugs. “You are.”
