Later, after the courier slinks back into the night and the tower goes quiet, I retreat to my hideout.
It’s a cave in the rockface just outside the boundary grid, covered by an old heat-dampener tarp and sensor scramblers. Inside, I’ve cobbled together a workspace from smuggler junk, stolen parts, and a couple of Helios scrapboxes.
It smells like oil and regret.
I sit at the console and log the courier’s activity with minimal notes. My fingers pause over the terminal.
Should I report the Helios breach?
Targen would flip his spines. He’d send in a sweep team, maybe even target Luna if he thinks she’s been compromised.
I clench my jaw.
Not yet.
I close the file and push the terminal away.
The quiet wraps around me, thick and cold.
I pull an old logbook from under the bench—real paper, ancient thing. Stolen from a Helios freighter two years ago. The pages are yellowed, the binding cracked.
I flip to a blank page.
And I draw.
Claws careful, strokes light. Just like she taught me once, years ago, when we were tangled in sheets and soft light and hope.
I don’t need reference.
Her face lives behind my eyes.
The curve of her jaw. The shape of her eyes. The mouth that used to smile when I said something stupid. The lines I put there when I broke everything.
I sketch her hair, loose and wind-blown.
Her shoulders, small and strong.
Her expression—sad, tired, still beautiful.
When I’m done, I stare at it for a long time.
My throat aches.
Like I’ve swallowed fire.
She deserves peace. Not this. Not me hovering outside her life like a shadow waiting to devour it.
I tear the page from the binding.
Light it with my claw.
Watch it curl and blacken until nothing’s left but ash.
I am not that man anymore.
I can’t be.
The sky splitslike old leather—thin, ragged, scorched by propulsion wash as a dark wedge streaks across the clouds. I glance up from the rock shelf, eyes narrowing. The Coalition skiff cuts a lean path above the outer valley, black hull glinting dully in the dying light, red sigils flaring faint along its belly.