I follow him through the narrow corridor to the command deck. TheScallywaggroans under my boots, every bulkhead lined with cables and scratch marks. Reflector floats close, almost touching my shoulder now, like it’s trying to shield me.
We reach the command console, and Meyer gestures at a chair with a flourish. “Make yourself comfortable. We’re launching in less than two.”
I drop into the seat, cross my legs, and tap into my feed manager. “Reflector, go live in three, two...”
“Now.”
The lens clicks on. My face fills the screen, perfectly lit even in the dingy lighting of the bridge.
“Hey, starlings!” I chirp, back in persona. “Your girl Izzy is officially on board the most questionable ship in the sector, heading straight for the Hulk! Strap in. Boosters are about to kick!”
A chorus of reactions floods in:SHE’S DOING IT.LOOK AT THAT SHIP, LMAO.NO FILTER COULD SAVE THAT ROOM.WE LOVE A RISKY QUEEN.
I wink and toggle a sparkle filter. “What could possibly go wrong?”
I end the stream and just—breathe.
The hull shakes. Not a gentle hum, either. A teeth-rattlingwhoompthat slams me back into the seat. My harness jerks tight as the engines roar to life.
“Uh, is that normal?” I shout over the din.
Meyer’s voice comes calm over the intercom. “Bit of a temperamental start. She’ll even out.”
“I swear to the twin moons of Vex,” I mutter, “if I break a nail in here, I’m deducting hazard pay.”
But the next jolt knocks me sideways. Something cracks—maybe my composure. My carefully arranged braid unspools against my shoulder, and I feel the unmistakable tug of sweat breaking through my setting powder.
And then the glam goes.
The sparkle liner smears with a sharp burn of tears from acceleration. My lashes bend the wrong way. The highlighter beads with moisture.
My persona—my whole carefully curated image—is unraveling under G-force and engine stutter.
And there’s no hiding it.
No edits. No cuts. No do-overs.
Just me.
Being launched into the void with a bunch of space-thugs and no script.
Reflector’s voice cuts in, shaky with simulated panic. “Altitude stabilizing. Outer hull integrity at eighty-one percent. Minor radiation leak in aft compartment—currently contained.”
I stare straight ahead. The viewport shows stars now, streaking as the Scallywag climbs away from the station. My heart’s pounding. My palms are slick.
This isn’t a show anymore.
This is real.
No turning back.
And despite everything—despite the cheap ship and the creep crew and the fact that my mascara is now technically a war crime—there’s a beat in my chest that saysyes.
This.
This is what I came for.
CHAPTER 2
