Page 161 of Star Claimed Omega
The words he’d never spoken hurt more than any of the ones they had shouted.
She had known it wouldn’t be easy, but she hadn’t expected the emptiness to carve her out so much.
The tricky part was supposed to be surviving the goodbye.
Fokk, she could still sense him everywhere.
Hewas in the empty side of the bed, in the ghost of laughter that used to fill his cabin.
Every breath she drew felt like reaching into the dark for meaning that no longer existed.
It didn’t help that her tiny dormitory bunk sat between neighbors sobbing in their slumber and snoring freight haulers, the air itself thick with insomnia and desperation.
It was the best she could afford, since she refused to touch a solitary schill from theRedSkullaccounts, to which she now had access.
It was blood money, all of it.
Let Vern, Varnok, and every cent of their chaos and wealth rot in whatever dimension claimed them.
A loud ding sounded, announcing her station and jostling her from her reverie.
The maglev came to a screeching stop, and the doors creaked open.
She stepped off, dragging herself through the stairs and crowds.
Her shift at theKahawa Metrocafé started early, and she moved with a quiet, resigned gait.
The soft hum of baking units greeted her when she arrived in the kitchen, along with the usual gruff bark from her boss.
‘Let’s go, girl. You just made the start time.’
Krohn Vassa was a thickset man with oil-stained fingers and a voice like scraped metal.
Once a pipe technician from the lower levels of Cybele, he now ran his establishment with all the charm of a military drill sergeant and the grace of an embittered cargo hauler.
The localkahawacafé was close to the loading docks and terminus, tucked between a gear-head repair shop and a noodle stand.
During its busiest hour, the air inside the café hummed with the metallic clatter of cups and the roar of conversation, a brief, chaotic refuge for travelers before the terminal gates.
The aroma of steamed milk and roasted beans wafted from its vent stacks.
For Soleil, it was grounding.
The work was grueling, most of it on her feet.
She clocked in before 5 a.m. most mornings, and by closing, she could scarcely feel her calves.
Her wrists soon throbbed from lifting heavy urns.
Her back screamed by mid-shift.
At least the monotony was good for something: it numbed the ache in her chest.
The dense fatigue acted as a buffer, shielding her thoughts against spiraling memories and from Santi himself.
She got spared the agonizing recollection of his beautiful form making love to her, as she clung to him, moaning as he rocked them to bliss.
Her exhaustion dulled the haunting look in his eyes during their last fight: anguish, betrayal, and love, merging into one devastating expression.
