“Shut it,” I snap.
The bridge stills.
I don’t yell. I don’t need to. My voice has weight. Same as my fists. The silence that follows isn’t respect—it’s survival.
Crik raises both hands like he’s innocent. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Cap. Just... seems a waste, y’know? Floating banquet like that, and we’re flying past on an empty gut.”
“I said shut it.”
I stand. My joints protest. Old pain. Old scars. My frame ain’t what it was during the war, but I move like it is. That’s all that matters. Illusions go further than armor.
“Listen close,” I rumble, pacing toward the central console. “This crew’s made up of every damned thing the galaxy didn’t want. Killers. Exiles. Freaks. You followed me through hell. Through the Badlands. Through Reaper storms and Alliance blacksites. I didn’t carry you all this way to get sloppy at a food court.”
A few chuckles rise—nervous, sharp-edged. Good. Let ‘em think I’m half joking.
“But wearegoing in,” I say.
Crik licks his teeth. “To hit the vault?”
“No.”
My voice lands like a dropped anvil. He flinches.
I stalk back to the viewport. The station’s clearer now. Sleek. Garish. The kind of structure built to impress tourists and bankrupt dreamers. Neon flare and gold trim. Banners flicker along the hull:Grand Opening – Ribbon Cutting Live Now!
Of course it is.
She always did have a flair for timing.
I exhale slow. My breath mists against the glass.
“This is personal,” I say, low. “And it’s not a bounty. Not a raid. Not some glory-drenched massacre you can sing about later. We dock clean. We walk soft. No weapons drawn unless I say so.”
There’s a shift behind me. Like a pack of predators forced to wear collars.
“You goin’ after someone, boss?” murmurs Jil, my navigation tech. Her voice is soft, curious. Smart enough to be scared. “That VIP they mentioned in the comm burst?”
My eyes narrow.
On the screen, the broadcast flickers. A podium. Security drones. And there she is—center stage. Dress too fancy for this side of the stars. Smile too brittle to be real. But gods, she glows. Even angry.
Isolde.
I clench the railing. My claws dig grooves in the alloy.
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “She’s the reason.”
Another silence.
Then a low, cautious buzz as Reflector floats into view.
“I advise strongly against this,” the little droid says, lens trembling like a leaf in a fusion storm. “Probability matrix indicates multiple hostile outcomes. You are compromising your command authority.”
I don’t look away from the screen.
“Let ‘em come.”
“Captain,” Reflector says again, more insistent. “She’s moved on. She has a child. She has a life. You storming this station like it’s the damn Hulk again—this could destroy everything.”
