“She’s not mine to keep,” I reply. “She never was.”
His gaze lingers on the recorder.
“What’ll you do with that?”
“Archive it. Maybe leak it. Maybe just keep it for Pyramus.”
At the mention of his name, Garokk smiles—not big, but real.
“That boy’s got your fire,” he says.
I bump his shoulder with mine. “And your stubbornness.”
We walk again, turning corners, heading toward the main deck.
The walls don’t feel like enemies anymore. They feel like stories.
He stops outside the old command bay. The door’s still scorched from the last mutiny.
He looks at it, then at me.
“You want to see it?”
“No,” I say. “I already saw enough.”
We stand there for a long moment. Just... breathing. Side by side.
Finally, I take his hand.
“I’m not keeping trophies,” I tell him.
He squeezes gently. “Neither am I.”
The dock waits for us, quiet and clean.
We board the cruiser that brought us in, no fanfare. Just two people who survived too much, loving too hard to walk away now.
As the ship pulls back, I look out the rear viewport one last time.
The Hulk drifts behind us.
Alone.
Silent.
Whole.
We settlein a part of the galaxy that doesn’t even bother with name tags.
No capital ships. No Combine security sweeps. Just drifting green skies, soft-edged moons, and neighbors who don’t ask questions so long as your trash is sorted and your shield grid doesn’t bleed interference onto their crops.
It’s quiet.
Uneventful.
Perfect.
We lease a house near the cliffside on Ankaran-5. Technically, it's a modified atmospheric research dome, but I fill it with carpets and windows and warmth until it starts to feel like something close to home. Garokk installs reinforced doors. Just in case.
