Chapter 25
KAZ
Idon’t say goodbye.
Can’t. Don’t know how to shape the words without choking on them.
Swan’s sitting on the edge of his launch kit, hands laced behind his head like he’s sunbathing instead of about to pilot a one-way drop. His feet bounce off the floor like there’s a rhythm only he can hear. Like the world hasn’t shifted out from under both of us.
“You gonna stand there all grim-faced, or do I get a send-off line?” he asks, not even looking at me.
I try to swallow. It sticks.
“You sure you want a joke?” I say, voice dry. “Could go out with something poetic.”
“Please don’t. If I gotta die, I’d like it to happen without hearing your tragic metaphors.”
He grins. But I can see it now—how pale he looks under the light. How tightly he’s gripping the fabric at his knees. His usual chill vibe’s wearing thin around the edges.
“I should be in that seat,” I mutter.
He finally looks at me. Eyes steady. Clear.
“And yet, here I am.”
I can’t look away from the ship behind him. The way it hums like it’s holding its breath.
“I’m sorry.” It slips out.
Swan stands. Walks over. Claps a hand to my shoulder so hard I sway.
“Don’t be. Just…” He exhales, smile faltering. “Don’t waste this. Live something worth the trade.”
And then he’s gone.
The room’s dead silent.
The mission stream plays across every surface of the observation gallery. I’m standing at the back, shoulders pressed to the wall like it might hold me together.
Nova sits up in the tower. I see her silhouette, sharp against the console light. She hasn’t moved since launch.
I don’t think she’s blinked.
Swan’s voice crackles through the speakers, casual like always. Calling out trajectory markers. Running diagnostics like it’s a drill.
Then silence.
He reaches the satellite.
Charges deploy. They stick.
He pulls back. Cameras catch the edge of the blast.
And then there's light.
Too much.
Something else erupts. Not just the satellite. Debris. Secondary systems. Chain reaction.
His comm cuts.
The screen goes black.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
Nova’s hand covers her mouth. I see her shoulders crumple just a fraction.
And I leave.
The memorial’s a blur. A hollow thing filled with too many uniforms and not enough Swan.
His picture’s up—cheeky grin frozen in time. There’s a folded flight jacket under a glass case. A few of his favorite tracks playing low through the atrium’s speakers.
I stand at the edge. Can’t get close.
Every word they say feels like static.
“...a hero.”
“...gave everything.”
“...bravest we had.”
I don’t feel brave.
I feel like the coward who stayed behind.
Like the ghost of a man who stole someone else’s future.
So I don’t say anything.
I leave before the eulogies end.
I walk.
No destination.
Just the edge of the field, over and over until my boots are covered in dust and my throat’s raw from yelling at nothing.
At one point, I punch the side of a grounded flyer.
Metal gives a sickening clang. Pain blooms sharp across my knuckles.
I punch again.
Blood smears the panel.
Still doesn’t feel like enough.
The stars above don’t care. They just burn on, indifferent and endless.
I sink to the tarmac, back against the cold hull.
Nova’s face keeps flashing through my mind.
The look she wore when I said she killed me.
The way she didn’t chase me.
Gods, Swan.
All that light, and now just ash.
I press my forehead to my knees.
And breathe.
If I don’t move, maybe the guilt won’t catch up.
But I know it already has.