And I know he knows it.
The walls are too clean, too white. Sterile and humming with recycled air and containment locks. There’s a low thrum in the floor from the backup generators rerouting all power away from the promenade. Somewhere above us, drones are probably scanning every air duct for heat signatures.
I cross to the tinted window. Look down. The lights of the mall flicker back to life, bit by bit. A carousel spins on its side. A fountain’s been scorched black by a stray blaster.
And beyond that—movement.
Not people. Not security.
Ships.
Big ones.
Parked wrong. Facing inward.
Garokk’s crew.
Still docked.
Still not leaving.
And they haven’t fired a shot.
Why?
This wasn’t a raid. It wasn’t a smash-and-grab.
It was a message.
From him.
A pulse in the bloodstream of my carefully rebuilt life.
And now I can’t breathe.
The airin the observation deck is too still.
Too clean. Too sterilized. It feels like the kind of place they used to keep exhibits behind glass in—like maybe once this room held something precious. Endangered. Too important to touch.
Now, it holds something worse.
History.
Me.
And him.
Garokk stands across from me, just inside the glow of the deck’s perimeter lighting. Not moving. Not speaking. Not evenblinking.His silhouette cuts into the sterile blue wash of the walls like something forged, not born. No armor. No weapons drawn. But somehow, he’s the most dangerous thing in this room.
I know because my lungs haven’t worked right since he stepped in.
“Security is posted outside,” I say, because saying anything is safer than saying what Iwantto say. “No surveillance inside, per protocol.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me.
It’s maddening.
I step forward. “You asked for this. You wanted to see me. Sosay something.”
