And when this ends—they will.
CHAPTER 36
ALAINA
The air inside the mall tastes wrong—like scorched wiring and spilled sanitizer, metallic and sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. The smell of fear is everywhere. It’s a real thing, not just a saying: sweat gone sour, skin gone cold, adrenaline in every breath.
Caelix shifts against me, his small hands fisting my shirt. His little heart thuds fast against my collarbone. I stroke his back to keep him calm, though my own pulse is a wild animal rattling its cage.
Around us, the hostages huddle in the gutted food court. The tables have been shoved to the walls, chairs piled like barricades. We’re corralled in the center, a living display. The AIV-Justice operatives stalk the perimeter, boots squealing against slick tile, weapons out and ready. I count at least a dozen in our sector alone—heavily armed, masks with digital readouts flickering like dying stars.
Two men catch my eye.
Young. Human. Maybe early twenties. Short hair, muscled arms, that swagger you only get from gym hours and too much self-belief. They’re whispering fiercely to each other, heads bent,glancing at exits and guards. One keeps flexing his hands like he’s already warming up for a fight.
I shift closer, voice low. “Don’t.”
They glance at me, impatient.
“Don’t what?” one says. He’s got a cocky grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lady, relax. We’ve got this handled.”
“No, you don’t,” I hiss. “They’ve got auto-sentries. They’re not bluffing.”
He smirks. “I’ve been in worse.”
His friend adds, “You’re scared. We get it. Just keep your kid quiet, ma’am. We’ll take care of it.”
I grit my teeth. “Listen to me. You’re going to get people killed.”
They look at me like I’m an obstacle, not a warning.
“Ma’am,” the first one says, lowering his voice like he’s soothing a nervous animal, “go sit down. We’ve trained for this. Martial arts. Tactics. We’ve got a plan.”
“This isn’t a dojo!” I snap. “They’ve got rifles and nerve gas canisters. You think a roundhouse kick is going to stop that?”
The second one leans back, smirking at his buddy. “She’s panicking. Just keep your eyes on the guards, Kyle.”
Kyle. Great. The kind of name you give someone who’s going to do something stupid in a war zone.
I press Caelix’s head to my shoulder, try to block his view of them. “Please,” I whisper, last try. “Don’t do this. You’ll get him—” I nod at Caelix, “—and the rest of us killed.”
They turn away.
I’m left standing there, heart pounding, knowing what’s coming and unable to stop it.
I edge toward one of the guards—a heavyset Vakutan male with scars under his eye mask. He’s got the stance of someone who’s survived too many raids. “I need to speak to Marrok,” I murmur.
He glances at me, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“Because two idiots are about to get everyone here killed,” I whisper. “You can either hear me out or deal with the mess after.”
He stares for a second, then keys his comm. “Got a mother says there’s a problem.”
A few minutes later, Marrok appears.
He’s taller up close, gaunt but coiled like wire. One eye gleaming red cyber, the other pale blue, pupil blown wide. He smells faintly of oil and cold metal. His voice is a low growl, slick with amusement.
“What’s this?” he says. “You volunteering to be a martyr?”
