He grunts again. “They’ll move soon. Search parties.”
“So we stay ahead of them,” I say, stepping away from the console and turning to face him directly. “You know this place better than anyone. You got another path?”
His gaze lingers a second too long before he nods. “There are tunnels. Old maintenance shafts. Not meant for transport but passable. Quiet. Unmapped.”
“Perfect,” I say. “That’s how I like my death traps—off the grid.”
His mouthalmosttwitches. Not quite a smile, but less like a permanent scowl. I’ll take it.
He gestures toward a sealed hatch in the corner of the room. It’s half-covered in dust and grime, with a Vakutan glyph etched into the frame. “That way.”
I take a step toward it. “You’re sure it’s safe?”
“No,” he says flatly.
“Great,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
I expect him to insist I stay behind. Or to grumble something about how I’ll only slow him down. But he doesn’t. He just walks over, grabs the wheel crank with those monstrous claws, and starts turning like the metal weighs nothing.
That’s when I realize—he’s not going to argue.
He’s letting me come.
The last guy who called himself my “protector” locked me in a cargo bay and told me I’d be safer out of the way. The one before that tried to convince me my job was to “look cute and stay quiet.”
Garokk just opens the hatch and looks back at me likewell?
I follow.
The shaft beyond the door is barely tall enough for me to stand upright, which means Garokk’s got to hunch over awkwardly as we move. I glance behind me a few times, watching him maneuver with the kind of grace no man that size should have.
“How do you evenfitin here?” I ask after the third sharp turn. “You’re like, what, seven and a half feet tall?”
“Seven nine.”
“Seriously? And you didn’t just smash through the floor to make your own shortcut?”
His snort echoes down the corridor. “That would wake the ship.”
“It’s already awake,” I mutter. “I swear, every time I breathe too loud something hisses.”
We crawl through a few more bends, past rusted pipes and flickering hazard lights. The whole ship smells like ozone and oil and old secrets. It’s hot, too—stifling. My skin’s slick with sweat, hair sticking to my neck, and I’m starting to wish I’d worn literally anything other than a velvet-trimmed crop jacket and thigh boots.
Finally, we reach a vent panel leading into a wider corridor. Garokk signals for me to stop, holds a finger to his lips—well, not lips. His mouth. Whatever.
He presses a claw to the grate, listening.
I do too.
Footsteps.
They’re far, but closing.
He glances back at me, eyes narrow. “We wait. Then move.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “But where are we headed, exactly?”
“Life-support nexus,” he says. “Central hub. Most secure system left on this ship. If I can access it, I can control atmospherics, lockdowns. Maybe?—”
