Page 3 of Savage Bond

I stare.

He raises both brows. “You’ve got that new-transfer look. Fresh boots, sharper edges. Not a smudge on that badge. You’re either going to be a war hero or punch me in the face for saying that.”

“I could do both.”

He whistles, low and appreciative. “All right, Lieutenant Marlowe. I see you.”

“Don’t.”

That slows him. “Don’t what?”

“See me. Talk to me. Assume things.”

The smile falters just slightly, like I surprised him. He nods once, more serious. “Got it.”

I exhale and turn back to the locker, palms flat against the cool steel.

Why am I like this?

It’s not his fault I don’t trust anyone. It’s just that… every time someone has acted nice before, it’s turned out to be a setup. Or a test. Or a trap.

So I keep my walls high. And reinforced. And electrified.

“You’ll want to hit the mess before we launch,” he says behind me, quieter now. “After that, it’s just ration packs and regret.”

I nod but don’t look back.

He leaves without another word.

The silence he leaves behind is louder than his voice.

I stay in the crew quarters until the lights dim to pre-jump cycle. Most of the others have filtered out by now—heading to stations or crashing in for whatever sleep they can steal before launch. I need neither.

The locker hums softly under my fingertips as I press it closed, more from habit than necessity. Everything’s packed, locked, secured. I’ve done all I can to look like I belong.

But belonging was never the problem.

It’s believing that I do.

I slip out into the corridor without a sound. My boots move softer now, more sure, like I’ve learned the ship’s rhythm in just a few hours. Truth is, it feels more like I’ve learned to stay out of the way.

At the far end of the corridor, past a sealed galley and two locked doors marked “Crew Only,” is a small viewing alcove—one of those architectural afterthoughts that serves no real function other than aesthetics. A slice of duraglass stretches from floor to ceiling, revealing the stars outside like a wound in the ship’s skin.

I lean against the edge of the frame, arms folded tight, eyes fixed on the void.

Out here, there’s no sound. No judgment. No gravity to hold your failures against you. Just lightyears of silence and the occasional flicker of something ancient and burning.

I’ve looked at the stars my whole life—through binoculars on a rusted balcony, from behind reinforced academy windows, on a cracked data slate with a too-dim screen. But it’s never been like this.

They’re real here.

Close enough to believe they might touch you back if you reached.

“Ten minutes to jump,” a voice says over the comm, static fuzzing the edges.

The ship groans faintly, pressure shifting as thrusters align. I watch one of the docking clamps detach, slow and methodical. My reflection in the glass is pale, ghostly, like I’m not quite part of the ship I’m standing in.

Like I’m still trying to earn my way on board.

---