Even now.
Even fromme.
And it burns. It burns so sweet I could scream.
“Reflector,” I say quietly. “Run an exit trace.”
“You’re not confronting her yet?”
“No.”
“Captain...”
“Not yet.”
There’s a plan now. It’s not fully formed. It lives in the back of my throat and tastes like smoke and regret. But it’s there.
She doesn’t know I’m here.
Not really.
Not yet.
But shewill.
We’re quiet. Surgical. I keep the crew tight to my back, boots muffled against the deck plating. No weapons drawn. Not even Crik’s twitchy fingers. But I feel the moment crack open before it actually happens.
A flicker of motion from an upper catwalk. A red light stuttering to amber. Somewhere, someone in a uniform sees too much and too little, all at once.
Then the station flinches.
The security team’s misread is total.
“Unregistered signatures near the stage,” someone barks over a tinny intercom. “Repeat: hostile presence—unknown operatives in motion!”
Blaster fire erupts like a question answered too fast.
A blue bolt scorches past my shoulder, harmless in its aimless panic—but the sound alone detonates the promenade’s calm.
Screams ricochet off polished tile.
Crowds erupt in a wave of motion, hands grabbing children, pushing strollers, stumbling over handbags and holo signs. A vendor’s cart explodes in a flash of glittering smoke. Hot oil.Burnt sugar. It all swirls with perfume and ozone and the metal-rot scent of fear.
“Hold your line!” I snap, voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. “Nobody fires back!”
Thresk stiffens beside me, mouth already forming a curse. “Boss?—”
“Not. One. Shot.” I shove him back behind a column. “They think we’re an op. We arenotan op.”
“But they’ve got rifles aimed at our heads!”
“They shoot, we live. We shoot back, and it’s a war.” I jab a claw upward. “You want bodies hanging from mall rafters on the Holonet?”
Crik snarls under his breath. “You didn’t say anything about getting torched for optics.”
“You signed up to walk behindme.Stay there.”
The security units fan across the plaza like they trained for this exact mess. Formation drills, but sloppier—because real fear makes hands slippery and eyes twitch. I clock six rifles aimed in our direction. No one’s talking to each other. All instinct. All mistake.
