Voices, muffled through thick suits and thicker glass.
“She’s alive.”
“Vitals stable. She’s breathing.”
“Get her out of there—gently.”
I blink, and someone flinches like that’s the worst thing I could’ve done.
The escape pod’s hatch opens with a hiss I barely register. Cold air rushes in, too bright, too loud, too real. I don't resist asthey lift me—don’t even try. My limbs dangle. I feel like laundry in a storm.
They keep saying my name.
Isolde Verrix.Over and over. First name, last name, title. They know who I am. Of course they do. I’m the face of half the holonet and the voice behind a billion credits of content. My missing poster probably paid for a small war.
I wish I’d stayed missing.
I don't speak as they carry me onto the retrieval ship. I don’t cry, don’t smile, don’t even blink unless they touch my face.
Shock. They whisper it like a diagnosis, like a prayer.
Shock.
She’s gone catatonic.
It must have been horrific—no food, no water, no human contact for days...
I let them think that.
Let them talk around me, over me, through me.
Let them believe it was the time in the pod that broke me.
Not the man whosavedme andleftme in the same breath.
Reflector never leaves my side.
They try to separate us at first—protocol, contamination, standard AI re-shelving.
He flashes a stunner pulse so close to one technician’s hand that the poor guy pisses himself. After that, nobody argues.
They run scans. Feed me rehydration IVs. Try to ask questions. But I keep my lips pressed shut like they’re glued together. I don’t give them a sound.
Because if I open my mouth, I’ll scream.
Or beg.
Or maybehe’llcome out instead—his name, a curse and a prayer and a confession all at once.
I can’t risk that.
So I say nothing.
They try to send me back to Earth.
I say one word—No—and that’s enough.
Not because they respect me. But because no one wants to force the face of the galaxy’s most popular feed into a shuttle she doesn’t want.
