And the mistake isus.
A bolt strikes the tile just behind my boot. The smell of seared ceramic flares in my nostrils.
Civilians drop. Not hit—yet. But close. A woman in heels tumbles. A man ducks behind a kiosk that detonates seconds later into plastifoam shrapnel.
“Reflector,” I hiss into my implant. “We got a broadcast loop? Something they’ll listen to?”
“Negative,” Reflector replies, voice thin with strain. “Local comms are jammed. Emergency lockdown protocol is partial. They’re not receiving external ID signatures. You’re—how do I put this?—a ghost in a knife fight.”
“Perfect,” I mutter. I shoulder past a crumbling food stall, motion the crew back toward the loading flank. “Fall into the ducts. Don’t break visibility, butdo not return fire.We need to be seen without being a threat.”
“Captain,” Crik snaps, “we’re already getting painted like a target in a slaughterhouse.”
“Better a target than a murderer,” I bite. “Move.”
The chaos isn’t even symmetrical. One quadrant of the mall is full-on riot—screaming, bodies tripping over benches, kids crying, food carts ablaze. The other half is frozen in confusion, too shell-shocked to react.
Above the din, I hear something deeper.
A silence.
A held breath.
Then her voice, distant but clear, like memory through fog.
She’s shouting. Not at me. Not for me. At security, maybe. Her team. I can’t make out the words, but I know the cadence. Authority forged in grit and glamor. Still polished. Still commanding.
My gut knots.
She’s close.
And then I see her.
Stage-left, just behind a half-collapsed banner and a wobbling security barrier—Isolde. Hair tied like a crown, dress soot-smudged from a nearby blast. One heel snapped. Her arm is around the boy. Her boy.
She pulls him behind a plastisteel barricade, lips moving fast as she cradles his head into her side. He’s breathing hard. Not hurt—but terrified.
I can’t look away.
The space between us isn’t far. Fifty meters, maybe. A few overturned chairs and a war’s worth of misunderstanding. I don’t move toward her. She doesn’t move toward me.
But our eyes meet.
Across smoke. Across time.
Her stare is steel.
No smile.
No gasp of recognition.
No “I knew you’d come.”
Just cold, furious clarity.
She knows.
Sheknowsit’s me.
