“Goddess,” one of them breathes.
I feel like a lie wrapped in silk.
But I smile.
Because that’s the job.
“Okay,” I say to Pyramus, holding out my hand. “You ready?”
He slips off the crate and takes my hand without hesitation, his little fingers warm and sticky with whatever snack he managed to sneak past Mila this morning.
“Do I have to talk?” he asks, brow furrowed.
“Nope. Just smile and wave. Like royalty.”
“Like pirates?”
“Sure. Fancy pirates.”
He beams. “I’m good at that.”
I squeeze his hand. “Me too.”
That’s the plan.
Smile.
Wave.
Cut.
Leave.
I don’t know why I’m anxious. Security iseverywhere.
Big, beefy types with mirror-shield visors and enough tactical padding to survive a small moon implosion. I count at least a dozen just from my walk to the podium alone, all stationed at theperimeter of the promenade, hands on their sidearms like they expect a terrorist to burst out of the frozen yogurt kiosk.
Which, to be fair, isn’t impossible.
The last time I was at a public event like this, I had just come back from the Hulk and someone tried to throw a shoe at me on live feed. Said I faked the whole thing. That it was “AI-generated space trauma.”
God, people suck.
“Straight ahead, ma’am,” one of the guards murmurs as I pass. His voice is flat. Neutral. Too neutral.
They’re all like that.
Blank stares. Controlled movements. All of it choreographed. Not for my safety—though that’s the excuse—but for optics.Orbimall One: a beacon of order and opulence.No risks. No surprises.
And yet.
I feel it.
Before the air shifts. Before the static hum in my teeth starts. Before Reflector lets out that uneasypingin my ear.
Ifeelit.
Something is wrong.
