Chapter 3
KAIRO
Ben is standing on a chair in his pajamas, holding two purple dice like he's about to decide the fate of the universe.
“If I roll a double,” he says solemnly, “I get extra jam on my toast.”
I glance up from the stovetop. “The deal was, if you eat the toast without using it as a canvas for your economic theories, you get a juice box.”
“But Mom,” he argues, hopping down, “you said probabilities help us make better choices! I’m applying concepts.”
“Not before breakfast,” I mutter, flipping the toast and checking the eggs.
Ben’s bright, too bright sometimes. Five going on quantum mathematician. And hungry. Always hungry. Which is why I’m making his breakfast before mine, like every morning, and trying not to trip over the stuffed crustacean he left in the middle of the floor.
Maliek enters the kitchen like he’s gliding into a business meeting—crisp shirt, neutral palette, hair too perfect for someone who lives with a child. He takes one look at the cluttered table—juice caps, crayons, a half-assembled model of an interstellar cruiser—and clears his throat.
“Kairo, I thought we agreed to rotate morning cleanup.”
“Did we?” I ask, not looking up. “I must’ve missed that memo.”
He walks over to Ben, who’s now sorting his breakfast into rows. “Ben, let’s not make a mess this morning, okay, champ?”
Ben blinks at him. “This is called organized chaos. You just don’t get it.”
Maliek frowns. “Maybe we should cut back on the open learning time. He's... over-stimulated.”
“He’s almost five, not a malfunctioning robot,” I mutter, setting the plate in front of Ben. “Eat, sweetheart.”
“Can I roll for how many bites I take?”
“No.”
Ben sighs dramatically and starts munching, one eye on his dice. I pour myself a mug of caf and pretend not to watch Maliek hover like he’s supervising a toddler’s tribunal. He means well. He really does. But his attempts to connect with Ben always land just left of awkward.
And the elephant in the room—the one we never talk about—is that he’s not Ben’s father.
We’ve never said it. Not in so many words.
But he thinks he might be. I let him think that, and that makes me a special kind of coward.
The worst part is, he’s tried. He’s shown up.
He’s offered stability when I was barely sleeping, barely functioning, writing one-handed while holding a newborn with the other.
But Ben never calls him “Dad.” He just calls him “Maliek.” And sometimes, late at night, when Ben’s curled up next to me, he whispers about dragons with sharp teeth and blue eyes, and I feel like the floor’s been pulled out from under me.
I rinse a pan in the sink and glance at the clock.
“I’ve got to meet with Roan,” I say.
“Again?” Maliek asks.
“Publisher stuff.”
He nods like he understands, but I know he doesn't. Roan’s half literary agent, half damage control specialist these days. Ever since The Crimson Affair got picked up for vid adaptation, everyone wants to know just how much of the book is “real.”
Too much, honestly.
I grab my bag and kiss Ben on the head. He leans into it, sticky fingers and all.
“Try not to invent any new economic systems before lunch,” I say.
Ben nods solemnly. “I’ll do my best.”
I turn to Maliek. “See you tonight?”
He hesitates. “Maybe we should talk later. About… things.”
“Sure,” I say, already halfway out the door.
The air outside is crisp for Haven-7 standards—recycled, filtered, but with just enough synthetic pine scent to trick your brain into thinking it’s fresh. My boots echo against the polished walkways as I weave through the morning rush toward the transrail.
Just as I reach the platform, a wave of noise erupts overhead.
A vid-screen flickers to life, towering above the crowd. I glance up automatically, just another headline.
But the image hits me like a punch to the gut.
brEAKING: REDSCALE HEIR RELEASED FROM GLIMNER HOLD
And there he is.
Jav.
The screen shows him flanked by Alliance security, smirking like he’s already five steps ahead. His scales are dulled, but his eyes—those electric, impossible blue eyes—are the same.
My hand trembles. I don’t realize I’m still holding my coffee until it slips and shatters on the pavement. The liquid splashes my boots. I barely feel it.
People around me murmur, nudge each other. Some recognize him. Fewer recognize me.
I can’t breathe.
Five years.
Five years of silence. Of pretending I didn’t miss him every damn day. Of raising a child he doesn’t know exists. Of wondering what would happen if he ever came back.
And now he’s here.
Out.
Alive.
Free.
The transrail arrives in a gust of wind and light, but I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at his face.
And the ground tilts beneath me.