Page 66 of Zayrik

And that’s what worried me.

I remembered the first time I docked here, young, starving, flying a stolen shuttle and on the run from people who wanted me dead. The same fear in my gut, but different reasons now. Back then, I’d been desperate. Alone. Ready to do anything to survive.

Cal found me trying to trade ripped nav chips in the lower markets. I’d been ready to fight, to run, to disappear into the station’s shadowy depths.

Instead of turning me in, he’d offered me food. Shelter. A crash course in survival.

He never asked what I was running from.

Never needed to.

He recognized the look in my eyes. The one that said I’d rather die than go back.

I didn’t expect that kindness twice.

Didn’t deserve it, maybe.

But I was counting on him still hating Vask.

Still remembering what Vask’s people did to his crew.

His family.

I keyed in a docking request, trying to ignore how Zayrik’s presence made everything feel different. How having him here changed the whole dynamic of returning.

No response.

Typical.

Some things never changed.

I switched to the backup frequency, punching in the old override code. The one Cal had given me the night I finally told him why I was running. When he’d promised me a way out if I ever needed it.

A second passed. Then—

“This better be good,” came the gravelly voice I remembered. Rougher now, but still carrying that edge of danger beneath the warmth.

I smirked.

Still alive, then.

“Relax, old man,” I muttered. “It’s just me.”

A pause.

Then, a surprised chuckle. “Well, Gods damn. This is a surprise.”

The docking lights flicked to green.

We were in.

For better or worse.

“Friend of yours?” Zayrik asked, watching me with that expression he wore when he was trying not to look like he cared.But I caught the undertone in his voice. The way he said‘friend’like he was testing the word. Like he was already calculating threats.

“Cal,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral. “He’s station security. Sort of. Former merc. Current loose cannon with a badge.”

The kind of man who shoot you as soon as help you, depending on his mood. The kind who’d taught me that same instinct.

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