Chapter 41
KAIRO
It’s been a week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours since Jav tore the League compound apart with nothing but his rage and his name.
Since he carried Ben out of the dark like a myth brought to life.
And in that whole week, I’ve barely spoken to him.
Not beyond what’s necessary. Not beyond what motherhood demands.
Food’s on the table. Ben’s got a jacket. He has his meds, his sleep bear, his story time.
And Jav?
He gets nods. One-word answers. A slammed door here. A closed one there.
I can’t forget what he did for us.
But I also can’t forget what he didn’t say.
The lies he wore like second skin.
The danger he dragged into my son’s life like a shadow we never invited.
Ben, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to carry any of that weight.
Every day he wakes up with new drawings, new stories, a new name for the same man.
“Daddy Jav,” he chirps.
Like it’s always been that way.
Like it’s never been anything else.
I find a new one this morning—on the fridge. Crayon explosions of color. Jav with a jetpack. Ben flying beside him. Me with laser eyes.
It makes me smile.
And ache.
The school auditorium smells like waxed floors and recycled air. Parents cluster in folding chairs, sipping stimcaf and pretending not to judge each other’s parenting styles.
I sit three rows from the front, arms crossed, jaw tight.
I don’t even know why I’m here.
Maybe for Ben. Maybe to feel normal again. Maybe to prove I can still show up for something that isn’t war.
Ms. Trin’s already on stage, doing the thing she does—over-enunciating about “cross-curricular empathy matrices” and “inclusive narrative frameworks.” The room is half-asleep.
And then I feel it.
A shift.
A quiet tension.
Like gravity tilts just slightly off center.
I glance back.
He’s there.
Jav.
But not the version from before.
Not Mr. Kuraken in tailored jackets and smug smirks.
No suit. No armor.
Just a soft gray shirt, the kind that clings to his shoulders without meaning to, and a pair of worn jeans that look like they’ve seen better years.
He doesn’t take the front row like he used to.
Doesn’t wave at kids or crack jokes or take over the spotlight.
He just slips into a back seat.
Quiet.
Watching.
I try not to stare.
I fail.
Something in my chest shifts. Not quite breaking. Not quite healing either.
He doesn’t try to meet my gaze. Doesn’t make a show of being there. Just folds his hands and listens to Ms. Trin drone on about “space colony cooperative games.”
It’s like he knows he doesn’t get to be the center of the room anymore.
It’s… humbling.
It’s also infuriating.
Because it’s exactly what I wanted him to do.
And it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Afterward, the parents mill around, buzzing about homework packets and lunch volunteer sign-ups.
I head for the hallway. I need air. I need out.
But of course, he’s there too.
Leaning against the wall by the lockers, arms folded, eyes down.
He sees me.
Straightens a little.
Doesn’t approach.
Just lets me decide.
I almost keep walking.
Almost.
But something in me veers.
I stop two feet in front of him.
“Nice jeans,” I mutter.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Didn’t think you noticed.”
“I notice a lot. Doesn’t mean I’m impressed.”
“I know.”
The silence blooms.
I cross my arms. “What are you doing here, Jav?”
“Same as you. Showing up.”
“For who?”
“For him,” he says. No hesitation.
And damn it if that doesn’t sting.
Because he means it.
“He thinks you walk on stardust,” I whisper.
Jav’s jaw flexes. “I don’t.”
“I know that. You know that. But he doesn’t.”
“I’m trying,” he says. “To show him the man behind the cape.”
“Too little too late?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’m still here.”
That’s the thing.
He is.
No guns. No syndicate armor. No bravado.
Just this man.
Rough around the edges.
Showing up.
And it’s a start.
But it’s not forgiveness.
Not yet.