The master of ceremonies—some media-trained bot in a tuxedo-shaped exosuit—gives me a flawless introduction, heavy on adjectives and light on accuracy. I nod along like it doesn’t make my skin crawl.
When the mic is finally passed to me, I smile.
I raise my hands.
And I begin.
“Citizens of the Alliance... honored guests... partners, dreamers, and doers…”
My voice is clear. Strong. Practiced.
And utterly false.
This speech was written by a PR firm in quadrant seven. I’ve had it memorized for weeks. Every line is a glitter-dusted, family-safe platitude designed to sound inspiring while saying absolutely nothing.
“Orbimall One is more than a shopping destination. It is a promise. A symbol of unity in a fractured galaxy…”
I feel my throat tighten.
“...a beacon of commerce and cooperation, where species from every sector can come together—not just to trade, but to thrive…”
He's here.
He's here.
He’shere.
I can’tseehim, and that’s somehow worse. Because my bodyknows.It remembers. The way the air thickens when he enters it. The way his presence folds the atmosphere like a stormfront rolling in.
“...a future where prosperity and peace are not just possible—they are inevitable…”
My hand shakes. Just slightly. Just enough to make the golden ceremonial scissors click against each other. I grip them harder. My knuckles whiten.
Don’t look.
Don’t search the crowd.
Don’t let it show.
“Today, as we cut the ribbon on a new chapter for this station, for this sector?—”
I suck in a breath.
“—we also cut away the shadows of the past.”
The words catch.
Too close.
Too loaded.
Reflector buzzes once. A low tone only I can hear. He’s scanning. Still scanning. But the blip’s gone. Either masked or moved.
He’s hiding.
Of course he is.
Garokk doesn’t make entrances.
