“This deck,” he mutters, voice low, “used to flood with blood during boarding drills.”
I glance at him.
“You could just say ‘training,’ you know.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the truth.”
We stop at the corner where the wall panels still bear old marks—scorches from blaster fire that never got scrubbed out. He trails a claw along one, slow and deliberate.
“How long were you here?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes.
“Long enough to become something I hated.”
I nod, then pull out the recorder.
A small cube. Matte black. No holo effects. No filters. No production team.
Just me.
I place it on a crate.
The green light pulses.
And I speak.
“Director Isolde Verrix, personal entry. Final log from The Hulk. No titles today. No edits. Just... me.”
I glance toward Garokk.
He doesn’t move. Just listens.
“This ship has seen more fire than most cities. More betrayals than most governments. More secrets than I can ever put on record. But today, it rests. Today, we say goodbye.”
I inhale, slow.
“This isn’t a eulogy. It’s not a warning. It’s a marker. For those who never got a name. For those who tried to carve out survival in steel and chaos. For those who forgot how to dream.”
Garokk watches me. His gaze is heavy—not judging.Witnessing.
I continue.
“I used to think the only way to change something was to tear it down. But now... I think it’s harder, and braver, to let something go.”
I reach out and place my hand on the nearest wall.
“The Hulk is going dark. Long-range orbit. No crew. No AI. No weapons. Just... memory. And maybe that’s enough.”
The green light on the cube blinks twice.
Recording saved.
I switch it off.
Silence settles in again, thick with unspoken things.
Garokk finally says, “You sure you’re ready to let her go?”
