Then the feed cuts to Bokis—arms raised in protest.
“Don’t—! That’s not what we?—!”
Snarl.
Gunfire.
Bokis drops.
The image warps. Ends.
Reflector’s voice fades. “She… needs…”
I catch the tiny machine before it falls. I hold it like I would a wounded comrade.
“You did well,” I tell it. “Now rest.”
I tuck it into my belt, close to my core where my body heat can keep its power cell alive.
And then I run.
Faster than I have in months. Years.
My claws tear the deck. The Hulk responds to me now—doors sliding open before I reach them. It knows me. It remembers. I slam past corridors, crushing fungi underfoot. I follow her scent, the faint residual heat of her presence.
I reach the corridor where the ambush began. The stench of plasma and scorched fur clings to the air. Bokis’s body lies crumpled, half-burned. One of his ridiculous bracelets still clinging to his wrist.
I pause.
“He tried to stop them,” I murmur. Not for him. For her.
Because she will want to know.
Then I rise and continue forward, blood pounding in my skull. There’s no logic now. No strategy. Only rage. Only the primal thrum of vengeance building in my gut.
You took her.
You will bleed.
You will beg.
And then you will die.
I can taste blood in the air.
Not hers—metallic, cold, wrong. The ship hums with it. The Hulk feels my rage and trembles with anticipation. I can hear the engines groan below the decks, their rhythm syncing with my pulse. My claws curl around the hilt of my blade until the leather creaks.
Lor took her.
He touched what was mine.
The thought alone makes the edges of my vision swim red. My hearing sharpens. The corridor hum fades until there’s only the sound of my breathing—deep, savage, animal.
I run.
Every muscle in me remembers war. The ground shakes with my steps. The Hulk answers, doors sliding open a split second before I reach them, lights flickering like heartbeats, guiding me forward. Metal sings under my claws as I drag them along the walls. Sparks leap in my wake.
The scent of machine oil grows thicker. Lor is close. I cansmellthe sterility of him—the false life in synthetic flesh, the burn of circuitry, the absence of soul.
