Chapter 11 Rynn
RYNN
Drel’s office always smells like steam and old wiring.
He insists it’s because of the sterilization unit under his desk, but I think it’s just him. Alzhons run hot—something in their exothermic metabolism—and his cramped little corner of the med-bay never cools down, no matter how many fans he rigs to the venting system.
He’s hunched over a diagnostic panel when I step in, pale green skin slick with sweat, upper arms tucked tight against his ribs in a way that only happens when he’s anxious.
I shut the door behind me. Quiet. Deliberate.
He doesn’t turn around.
“You feel it too?” I ask.
He lets out a soft huff. “Been feeling it for days.”
“Then why the cryptic message?”
“Because I don’t like putting certain things on open channels. Even encoded.”
I walk up beside him, eyes skimming the lines of code scrolling across the display. It’s a routine system check. Or at least it looks like one.
“Tell me straight.”
He finally turns. His gaze is sharp, narrowed. “Station’s under a low-priority internal review.”
My stomach tightens. “That’s Alliance code for—”
“Yeah.” He nods. “A deeper op.”
I step back, pulse thudding in my throat.
“Someone’s been leaking intel. Not major files. Nothing classified on paper. But data fragments. Personal logs. Power grid pings. Access codes. Behavioral patterns.”
“Behavioral—”
“Schedules. Traffic flow. Med logs. Even rehydration cycles.”
I exhale slowly. “They’re building a profile.”
“Someone is. And someone else is helping them do it.” He leans in. “And I don’t think it’s you.”
I give him a look.
“I mean it,” he continues. “I think it’s Tarek.”
I blink. “That doesn’t make sense. He runs the security net. Why feed it anything off the grid?”
“Power games. Distraction. Maybe he’s not working for the Alliance directly anymore. Maybe he’s working for someone who’s watching the Alliance.”
I pace the room, boots scuffing the metal floor. My heart feels like it’s trying to hammer out of my chest.
“What if it’s not him?” I ask. “What if it’s someone close to him?”
Drel tilts his head. “You mean Vael.”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “He’s different. Not like before. There’s… pieces missing. But some parts are sharper than ever. Like he knows exactly how much to say to keep me off-balance.”
Drel watches me. Quiet. Calculating.
“You still love him.”
I freeze. “Don’t.”
“It matters.”
“No, Drel. What matters is keeping Nessa safe. And right now, I don’t know if that means staying or running.”
He frowns. “Rynn…”
“I mean it. I’ve got contingency files. Two jump IDs. A stash in the freight port under the third terminal. I can be gone in under six hours.”
“You think they won’t trace that? If someone’s already watching your access logs—”
“I’ve done it before.”
“That was years ago. She’s not a toddler anymore.”
That cuts deeper than I expect. I look away. “She made a friend. Last week.”
Drel sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “She’s finally building a life here.”
“She can’t have a normal life. Not with what’s in her blood. Not with how fast she’s changing. Her eyes, her strength—she shattered a playground structure.”
He winces. “I read the report. Synthetic wood. But still…”
“She can’t hide forever.”
“No,” he says, voice quiet. “But that doesn’t mean you should uproot her every time a shadow moves.”
I press my palms to the edge of his desk and breathe.
The steam in the room clings to my skin. Everything feels too close. Too loud.
“I’m running out of options, Drel.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
Then: “Maybe you’re not supposed to run anymore.”
I lift my head. Meet his eyes.
“You’re saying I should trust him.”
“I’m saying you should stop pretending he’s the only one who’s changed.”
Later that night, I sit at the edge of Nessa’s bed, stroking her hair back from her forehead. She mumbles in her sleep, clutching her raptor plush. The bio-reg jacket hums faintly, dampening her vitals. A soft amber glow pulses at the hem.
I watch her for a long time.
Longer than I should.
She’s beautiful. Terrifying. Mine.
I could run. We’d survive.
But she’d lose everything. Again.
And he… he’s here.
That used to be the danger. Now, maybe it’s the anchor.
Maybe Drel’s right.
Maybe it’s time to stop running.
But if I stay—really stay—I need to be ready for what that costs.
And gods help me, I’m not sure I can pay it.