Morning comes with a roar—alarms, orders, whiplash awakening. The squad scrambles. We’re redeploying. No rest. No pause.
I strap gear on in silence. My pouch feels heavy around my thigh. My mind is tangled. I leave the message there, unopened. One of many things I’m avoiding.
But I know I can’t avoid it forever.
And in the back of my head, Alaina's name burns like a star that won’t die.
CHAPTER 9
ALAINA
The message comes through the net like a bullet through fog. I’m folding clean shirts in the little kitchen when Jorla’s holo-link flickers.
She sounds weird—flat, clipped. Not her usual sarcastic lilt. “Hey. I heard something. I’m sorry.”
“About what?” I ask, though I already know.
She hesitates. The hum of her station in the background. “I ran a check through a friend in comms. The messages you sent... Troka saw them. But he hasn’t opened asingle one.”
My hand freezes mid-fold. The cloth in my grip trembles. I taste copper in my mouth—maybe old blood, maybe shock. The sharp tang of betrayal burns hotter than any liquor.
“He saw them?” I whisper.
“Yeah. Says so in the report. He logged in. He just didn’t read them.”
A laugh tears out of me. Bitter, ragged. I shove the shirts aside, storm out of the room, dragging Jorla’s voice behind me faint and worried.
I find the holo-photo shelf—three small frames. Our laughing dinners, mid-argument, a rare moment when he let his guarddrop. I knock them off, one by one. They smash against the floor. Glass shards glitter like wounded stars.
I don’t cry. Don’t scream. I just stare at the crumpled frames, the broken images of someone who couldn’t bother to see my words.
I open the photo album on my compad. Then I shut it. Delete. Every image, every file. The folder “Troka” is gone. I hit the log. Clear messages. Wipe history.
I’m not doing this because I’m strong. I’m doing it because I have to purge the wound before it scars the rest of me.
That night, I book a hair appointment. Choose a darker shade—maybe auburn, something bold. Something that hurts a little when you look at it in the mirror. Jorla and a couple of server girls come with me. Liquor in the salon back room. Laughter forced, sharp. The color scorches my scalp. The smell stings my nostrils. My skin tingles in protest.
“You look… different,” one of them says.
“Good different,” I lie.
We slide into a holo-dance club later—some cheap joint downtown with flashing lights and music too loud to hear your own regrets. I dance until my legs quiver. Order rounds for my crew. Laugh at jokes I don’t feel. The liquor burns, cute boys try to flirt, but I smile through it all like I’m auditioning for someone I won’t care about.
Inside, I’m empty.
Morning comes with a hangover and regret. I stumble home in the pre-dawn glow, the new hair too dark, too sharp. I blink hard. The world seems washed in gray. My walls look too tall. My bed too big. Caelix’s crib is quiet.
I go in. He’s curled on his side, fists tucked under his cheek. Soft breaths. Golden lashes brushing his cheeks. Even in sleep, his vulnerability wrecks me.
I cradle him, skin to skin, the scent of baby milk and warmth. He reaches for me, draws near. I press my face into his hair and swallow hard. The betrayal aches like a fist in my gut, but this—this moment—isn’t broken. He’s still here.
So I’ll fight.
I pack away the salon receipts, the empty drink bottles. I adjust his blanket. I wash, feed, rock. I keep going. Because he deserves someone who shows up, always. Even when they’re broken.
In the days that follow, I feel harder. I build walls between me and every longing. When I pass the storage room, I don’t glance in. When someone mentions taller men or bold soldiers, I turn away. When the holo-market pings new messages, I don’t open them. I don’t look for him.
I work double shifts. I memorize every discount route, every overtime schedule. I become armor. Quiet, efficient, unreachable.
