Chapter 19 Ella
ELLA
The walls are too white.
I hate white rooms.
They buzz — like the inside of my skull when I haven’t slept for days. Fluorescent light hums overhead, steady, pitiless. There’s a table, a chair, a glass of water that smells faintly like antiseptic, and a man in uniform who keeps smiling at me like he’s doing me a favor.
His name tag says KORIN. His tone says condescending bastard.
“Technician Corleone,” he begins, tapping something on his datapad, “we want to start by expressing our gratitude. You showed exceptional resilience during your ordeal aboard the Seeker.”
I stare at the table. “Where’s Takhiss?”
He pauses. I hear the faint click of the stylus against the glass. “The Coalition soldier you were found with is in secure containment. He’s being processed as a prisoner of war.”
My throat closes. “He’s not a prisoner of war—he’s a person.”
Korin doesn’t even blink. “He’s a combatant who breached an Alliance vessel. His case falls under interstellar martial law.”
“He saved me,” I snap. My palms slam the table before I realize I’ve moved. The sound echoes. Korin doesn’t flinch.
“Technician,” he says, voice cool, “you’re emotionally compromised. We’ll need to document your statement as such.”
“I’m not compromised, you son of a—”
The word dies in my throat when the door slides open and another officer steps in. A woman this time. Pale uniform. Captain’s stripes. She gives me that same neutral expression — sympathy polished down to procedure.
“Ella,” she says softly. “You need rest. Debriefing is standard protocol. We’ll clear you for reinstatement within seventy-two hours.”
“Not until I see him.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Make it possible.”
The captain’s eyes flick to the water glass, the walls, the camera blinking red in the corner. “We’re trying to keep this contained,” she says. “The Coalition filed a violation complaint. Until that’s resolved—”
I don’t let her finish. My hand flies before I can stop it. The slap cracks the air like a whip.
Her head jerks sideways, hair falling over one eye. For a second, no one moves. Then Korin lunges to grab my arm.
I rip free. “You have no right—none of you! He’s not your enemy!”
“Get security,” Korin says under his breath.
“I’ll go,” the captain says, lifting a hand. She wipes blood from her lip, glares at me like I’m a storm she’ll have to weather later, and leaves.
I stand shaking, chest heaving. My reflection in the glass wall looks like a stranger.
“Interview terminated,” Korin says quietly, tapping his pad. “Psych eval recommended.”
He leaves too.
The door locks behind him with a hiss that feels final.
They release me two hours later. A medic tries to hand me a sedative; I slap it out of her hand. Someone mutters the words unstable and evaluation. I don’t care.
They give me a temporary dorm — sterile quarters, bare walls, zero warmth. My old room on the Seeker is gone. My new one feels like a hospital ward.
I sit on the cot and stare at the wall for what might be hours. My hands are raw from clenching.
I keep seeing him — his body jerking as the stun rod hit, the light fading from his eyes as they dragged him away. The sound of his voice, low and rough, yelling my name until it cut off mid-word.
“Stop thinking about it,” I whisper to myself. “Stop. Stop.”
I press my knuckles to my temples. It doesn’t help.
When I finally lie down, my head hits the pillow and I start crying so hard I choke.
The next day, I throw a mug at the wall. It shatters. I don’t even remember picking it up.
The day after, I start asking questions again — corridors, decks, names. Every officer gives me the same script: “We can’t disclose the location of enemy detainees.”
By day three, I’m on a watchlist.
By day five, I stop sleeping altogether.
Marla finds me in the mess hall, hunched over a cooling plate of protein mush. She sits down beside me like nothing happened.
“You look like hell,” she says, picking up my spoon. “You eating?”
I don’t look up. “Where’s Takhiss?”
She sighs. “Ella, listen. You have to let this go. He’s Coalition. They’ll handle it.”
“Handle it,” I repeat, bitterly. “You mean bury him.”
“Don’t do this.”
I turn to her. “You weren’t there, Marla. You didn’t see him hold the hull shut with his body. You didn’t see him bleed just to keep me breathing. He’s not a monster.”
“I’m not saying he is. I’m saying it’s out of your hands.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then you’re going to break yourself.”
“Maybe I already have.”
She stands, eyes soft with pity. “Then you need help. Not another fight.”
I laugh — hollow, sharp. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”
When she reaches out to touch my shoulder, I pull away.
“Get out.”
“Ella—”
“I said get out!”
She goes.
The silence she leaves behind feels heavier than gravity.
Back in my quarters, the air tastes like recycled bleach. The bed’s too clean. The lights are too bright. I sit there a long time, staring at nothing.
My stomach churns. I haven’t eaten since morning. I push up to get water and suddenly double over the sink, dry-heaving.
It keeps happening. Morning. Night. Randomly. I chalk it up to stress, to recycled air, to too many memories grinding my brain to powder.
Until a thought hits me.
No.
I open the drawer where the medkits are stored. Pull one out.
There’s a single test strip inside — sealed, sterile, white.
My hands shake so hard I almost drop it.
Five minutes. That’s all it takes.
I pace the room. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Then I look.
A single blue light.
Positive.
The word slices me open.
I don’t cry at first. I just stare. My chest tightens. My vision tunnels.
Then the world tilts.
My knees hit the floor before I realize I’ve fallen.
I can’t breathe. The air’s too thin. My palms slide against the cold tile as if I can hold onto something real.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Oh, Takhiss…”
The sound of his name shatters me.
I fold in on myself and sob until my throat feels raw, until my body gives up and I’m left kneeling on the floor of a silent room, clutching a test that glows faintly blue in the sterile light.
And for the first time since they dragged him away, I understand exactly what it means to be alone.