The noise from earlier—the screaming, the blaster fire, the crumbling glass—replays on a loop in my ears. My jaw clenches against it. My spine's locked. It’s not fear. It’s worse.
It's memory.
"Mom," Pyramus whispers, voice muffled into my side. His fingers clutch the hem of my jacket like it’s the only stable thing in the galaxy. “Are we gonna die?”
“No,” I say, before the word even knows it's leaving my mouth. “Never.”
But the lie sits hot on my tongue. I swallow it anyway.
Security swarms the room like ants with shiny armor and expensive software. Their shoulder insignias flash navy and gold—Private Orbimall Defense Consortium. The corporate kind. Mercenary with a PR degree. The kind that files reports before they pull triggers.
A bald man with a neural implant practically welded into his skull slams a data slate on the table in front of me. It blinks red.
“Your guest list didn’t include pirates,” he snaps. “Or known fugitives. You aware your charity gala just turned into a hostage scenario?”
I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut a throat.
“No one's been taken,” I say. “No one’s been hurt.Becausethe pirates didn’t fire.”
He blinks at me like I’ve said something in ancient Selenian.
“They breached a station during a high-profile event,” he insists. “That's an act of aggression.”
“And you responded with live rounds into a crowd,” I counter. “That’s not protocol. That’s panic.”
Behind me, three members of my event staff huddle like damp birds, whispering rapid-fire into earpieces, trying to reach PR, comms, planetary representatives—anyone who can spin this before it hits the Holonet like a live grenade.
My stylist sobs quietly in the corner, holding a shredded length of my gown like it’s sacred cloth.
Pyramus pulls on my sleeve again. His voice is smaller this time. “Was thathim?”
I go still.
“I—I thought I saw—” He trails off. I don’t meet his eyes. I can’t.
The image is scorched into my vision: Garokk, up on the catwalk, looming like myth. That impossible stance, those eyes that never blink unless they mean it. He stood with his arms raised like he was begging the universe not to bleed.
It was him.
Gods help me—it washim.
But the room doesn’t need my collapse. Not yet.
“Baby, breathe for me,” I whisper, leaning down. “One in, one out.”
He tries. I feel his ribs expand and contract against my arm. His fingers grip tighter, like if he breathes wrong I’ll vanish.
“Someone tell me why the lockdown hasn’t gone full perimeter,” the bald officer snaps to his comm.
“Because half the doors are slagged from your men shooting first,” I spit, rising so fast my chair screeches across the floor. “And because whoever’s running your system doesn’t know how to read a biometric scan before labeling someone an active hostile.”
“You think this is ajoke?”
“No. I think it’s a circus. And you brought the fire-breathers.”
He steps forward like he’s going to argue. Maybe yell. Maybe demand blood.
But behind me, Pyramus lets out a low whimper. The officer stops. He looks down. For a moment, just a breath, there’s something vaguely human in his eyes.
