The words echo.
I meet his gaze.
And for the first time since I started this job, since I launched this persona, since I built this empire of glam and guts and gigabytes?—
I can’t fake a smile.
CHAPTER 3
GAROKK
Iwake to the sound of intruders.
Again.
The warning groan of breached pressure seals hums through the bones of the Hulk like a ghost dragging chains through steel. It vibrates in the ducts. It echoes in my ribs. I hear it before the monitors pick it up—low, subsonic, ancient tech whining awake like a beast poked too many times.
The ship groans with me. Not in pain. In hunger.
I stalk the dark like I always do, barefoot and silent. My claws click soft against the grating. It’s cold in here—always cold. The sort of chill that lives under your scales no matter how hard you breathe or how fast your blood runs. Fifty years of this tomb have taught me every tone it sings. Every whisper of metal on metal. Every sigh of systems long past their prime.
Butthis?
This is new.
I swing into my surveillance bay with a grunt. It’s not much—a nest of repurposed wiring, scavenged consoles, and cracked black-glass monitors patched together with sheer will and tenacity. Most don’t work. Some flicker when they feel like it. But a few—the best few—still give me eyes.
And today, they show methem.
Three humanoids at first.
One is massive. Horned. Arrogant. Carries his weapon like it’s an extension of his cock.
One’s smaller. Jumpy. Covered in fur. A Frayvoyan, if I’m any judge.
Another is lithe and silent, masked by something more than armor. A shadow with legs.
Then more.
A human man in a suit steps down into my Hulk like he owns it. Already barking orders. He scans the walls, the bulkheads, the seals—always looking for value. Not enemies. Not danger.
Treasure.
I snarl low. They always come for that. Gold. Weapons. Secrets. They never understand the Hulkisthe treasure. And the curse. And the grave.
They walk deeper.
My fingers twitch. The talons haven’t dulled over the years. I keep them sharp. Not for food. There’s barely enough of that. Not for writing. I’ve got nothing to say to the void. No.
They’re forthis.
For them.
I lean closer to the screen. My eyes adjust automatically, pupils narrowing into reptilian slits.
And that’s when I seeher.
At first, it’s the colors that get me—vibrant, stupid colors. Hair like dusk with violet slashes. A bodysuit half ripped from turbulence, half style. Glitter smudged on cheeks that should not be here. She walks like the ground owes her stability.
