Chapter 4
YARA
He’s looking at me.
Really looking.
Not like someone waiting for a punchline or prepping an exit — like someone actually seeing me.
The waiter arrives — impossibly thin, just a whisper of a humanoid in a tailored vest, all polite angles — and asks if we’d like drinks. I blink, caught mid-stare.
“Something… not alien,” I say, attempting humor.
Grau doesn’t flinch. “I think we deserve something with both guts and finesse.” He studies the menu like it’s a tactical readout, not a list of overpriced cocktails.
The waiter nods, unfazed by a Reaper at a high-end human lounge.
“I’ll have the Solar Flare,” I decide on instinct — vaguely citrus, vaguely spicy, a drink named like a warning.
“Good choice,” Grau says, and I hear something behind his voice — approval? amusement? something like warmth, but sharp.
He orders something called the Black Sun.
The waiter leaves. The subtle hum of music resumes — jazzy, but not slow, crooning notes that curl around the booth like smoke. It’s time.
And suddenly I’m terrified.
His gaze is steady, unblinking. Not predatory — not in the way hunters watch prey — but focused. Intent. Curious. And something deeper, like he’s measuring me not just with his eyes, but with his senses.
I clear my throat. “So… um. Nice place.”
“Nice?” he echoes, one corner of his mouth quirking. “This place has hosted treaty negotiations and three weddings — one of which involved an Ambassador and an Impaler Princess of Rielar V. There was a gladiatorial brawl during the dessert course. They rewrote the acoustics afterward.”
I blink. “That sounds… chaotic.”
Grau thumbs his fork on the tabletop, amused. “Chaos is merely structure you haven’t yet appreciated.”
And just like that, the tension loosens. A little.
I laugh — small, incredulous, but real.
I want to report him for charm.
Maybe that should be illegal.
“What do you do when you’re not rewriting lounges to fit your philosophical musings?” I ask, leaning forward a smidge, curious despite myself.
He lifts his drink when it arrives — dark swirl in a crystalline glass — and takes a slow sip. The liquid glows faintly under the lighting, like black ink caught in firelight.
“Drink bad drinks,” he says. “Collect bounties. Purposely lose at cards to see who cheats. Then hunt them and let them go because it’s funnier that way.”
I snort. “You have a weird definition of humor.”
“Only the refined kind,” he says, eyes glinting.
And despite myself… I chuckle.
The solar flares hit my tongue — bright, tart, with a sting at the end that makes me blink and warm from the inside out. He watches every reaction — my lips, my eyes, the way my shoulders loosen when the taste settles.
It’s unsettling, in a good way.
We talk about business. Not CY8 business — not spreadsheets and crises and creditors — but work as in what we do with our days.
He doesn’t dodge the fact that he kills for credits.
He says it casually, like it’s the same thing as mowing a lawn, but his eyes flicker with something else — pride?
disinterest? disdain? I can’t decide which, but I notice. And I wonder.
“You ever get tired of it?” I ask.
“Of what?” he says.
“Killing. Bounty hunting. The… whole thing.”
He swirls his Black Sun. “Tired? No. It’s like asking if fire gets tired of burning.”
“Right… but burnout?”
He cocks his head. “Burnout implies boredom. Boredom is a luxury I can’t afford.”
There’s a pause.
And in that pause, just for an instant, I see something in him that isn’t layered or armored or veneered in humor.
Just a flicker of… restlessness.
I realize I’m staring.
He notices.
“Your turn,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“Ask something normal.”
I blink. “I just asked something normal!”
He smirks — a real expression, not a leer or a grin — just a smirk that tells me he’s impressed by something about me I’m still trying to figure out.
“Fair,” he says. “Then — what scares you?”
I freeze.
Not because it’s a bad question, but because it’s so… direct. Unfiltered. Honest. And I’m not used to that.
Most people filter. They smile. They nod. They offer vague psychological platitudes that mean nothing and tell you everything.
But him?
He just asks.
“What scares me?” I repeat, tasting the words.
I glance at my glass. The last of my Solar Flare is gentle light fading on a sunset sky. I realize my chest feels oddly lighter than it has in weeks.
“Losing control,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t blink.
“You like being in control,” he observes.
I shrug—just a little. “I have to. Otherwise this company collapses on me like a dying star.”
His eyes are steady. “Control is an illusion.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Something about the way he says it makes sense — not comforting, not reassuring — just true.
Maybe chaos isn’t the opposite of order.
Maybe chaos is just… freedom we haven’t learned how to use yet.
Our appetizers arrive — artfully arranged cubes of something I don’t want to identify yet somehow love on instinct. I bring one to my mouth and find it tastes like salt and dawn and something sharp I can’t name.
“I didn’t expect tonight,” I say, mouth half-full.
“What did you expect?” he asks.
“A long meal with someone who makes me regret life.”
His laughter rumbles deep—far deeper than before, like an undertow beneath a river’s surface.
“I regret most of my life,” he says, “but rarely in good company.”
Something in the way he says it stirs… curiosity. Not fear. Not caution.
Curiosity.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
We talk through the meal — real talk. Not corporate tiptoeing or professional smiles. Not posturing or guarded small talk.
Just us.
I ask him about the Brothel Goat Incident again. He tells it more dramatically this time, with accents and flailing gestures that make everyone within a three-meter radius look at us like we’re entertainment.
I laugh so hard I almost snort.
And suddenly it feels like — for one fleeting, ridiculous, shimmering moment — I’m not CEO of a dying company anymore.
I’m just a woman having dinner with someone who sees her.
Really sees her.
I never knew how much I needed that.
When the plates are cleared, when the lights dim a fraction to signal dessert time, I realize it’s nearly over.
The music shifts — softer, slower, like a sigh.
I feel disappointment.
Stupid, unwelcome, unnecessary disappointment.
Grau seems to feel it too — I sense his awareness shift, not intrusive, not predatory, just attuned.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says.
“I’m processing,” I admit.
He nods, like that’s a perfectly valid thing to do in the middle of a date.
“I didn’t think I’d enjoy tonight,” I confess, looking down at my hands. My fingers are curled lightly around the stem of my glass, and I can feel the warmth of it seeping into my skin.
He watches me like my thoughts are a language he’s genuinely interested in learning.
“That’s fair,” he says. “Most people don’t enjoy meeting their terrifying oblivion on a night out.”
I snort, almost spilling wine.
“Terrifying is a matter of perspective,” I say.
He grins — one of those little half-smirks that make his eyes flash.
“From where I’m standing,” he says, “you seem more fascinating than terrifying.”
And I almost believe him.
Almost.
The city smells different at night.
Less like ozone and hot steel, more like memory. The air has that distinct sweetness that only comes when the hover lanes thin out and the neon lights pulse softer, like a heartbeat slowing before sleep.
My heels tap against the plasteel walkway as I step beside him. I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t be walking alongside a Reaper like we’re old friends sneaking out after curfew. My security detail would probably have a synchronized panic attack if they could see this.
But I’m not calling them.
I’m not going home yet.
I’m not ready to step back into that cold, empty penthouse with the unanswered reports and the hollow echo of my father’s voice buried in the walls.
“Nice night,” Grau says.
His voice cuts through the hum of the city like a slow-moving blade — not sharp, just heavy. Grounding.
“It is,” I murmur.
We walk in silence for a while. Around us, the city flows — hovercars skim through the elevated lanes above, their underbellies flashing gold and teal as they pass. Somewhere a few levels down, music leaks from an open terrace. Low. Melancholy. Someone’s saxophone heart bleeding into the night.
I sneak a glance at him.
He walks like he owns the ground, but doesn’t need to prove it. Like if the walkway decided to evaporate under us, he’d still be standing, just… somewhere else. Untouched.
His hands are bare now. I hadn’t noticed until this moment. Black leather gloves tucked away. And his fingers — claws, really — flex occasionally like he’s keeping them in check. Or like they’re waiting for something.
He hasn’t spoken again. I don’t know if it’s because he’s giving me space or because words just aren’t necessary to him. Maybe both.
“Do you always walk your dates home?” I ask.
He glances down at me, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Only when they look like they might vanish the second I look away.”
That makes me smile — a real one this time. A smile that doesn’t feel like a PR move or an obligation.
“Smart. I’m known for my tactical retreats,” I say.
He snorts. “That what you call CEO disappearances now?”
“Tactical exits. Preferably with smoke bombs.”
We round a bend, stepping up a tiered incline that opens onto a small overlook. The city yawns out in front of us like a living circuit board — gold veins of traffic, crystalline towers, floating billboards looping the same lux-ads on infinite repeat.
We stop there.
Not on purpose. We just… stop.
“Used to think places like this were fairy tales,” Grau says after a minute. His tone is low. Not wistful, exactly, but edged with something rougher. Regret maybe.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
He shrugs. “A dust trench outside Tarn’s Reach. Half-dome. Ration cores. Gravity lag. You wouldn’t have liked it.”
“Try me,” I say.
He looks over at me — not with amusement this time. Just quiet curiosity. “You ever sleep next to a wall heater that shorts out every twelve hours?”
“No.”
“Ever use powdered synth-rice that expired three cycles ago?”
“Also no.”
“Ever watch your neighbor sell their daughter to a militia because it meant two more weeks of water?”
My chest tightens.
He doesn’t say it to shock me. He says it like it’s just a truth. One of a thousand he’s learned to carry without flinching.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
He shrugs again. “I’m not. It taught me to survive.”
The silence afterward isn’t heavy. It just is.
Hovercars buzz above like fireflies with purpose. Somewhere below, a couple laughs — young, drunk, oblivious. I envy them in the abstract.
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in my own company,” I admit.
He says nothing, but his attention sharpens.
“I was born into it, you know? CY8. I had my first set of lab passes before I could spell cybernetic. I grew up thinking my father would live forever. That I'd have time to learn everything. Time to become… worthy.”
My throat goes tight.
“But he didn’t. And now I’m here. Fumbling. Winging it. Smiling for cameras while I try not to drown in debts and deals I barely understand.”
I didn’t mean to say all that.
Not here. Not to him.
And yet it’s out. Floating between us like one of the glowing drones humming past on silent repulsion fields.
“You’re still standing,” he says finally.
I turn to him. “That’s not the same as winning.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s the first part of surviving. Most people don’t make it past that.”
I meet his eyes.
Red. Steady. Not kind, exactly. Not soft.
But sure.
And that’s scarier than anything.
Because part of me wants to lean into that certainty.
Part of me wants to fall into it.
I tear my gaze away and look down. A soft breeze brushes past, tugging at a loose curl by my cheek. Grau doesn’t move, but I can feel his focus on me like pressure on my skin.
“How do you do that?” I ask suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Look at people like you’re reading their blueprints.”
He huffs something close to a laugh. “Comes with the trade.”
I sit on the edge of the overlook railing — probably not smart, but the vertigo helps keep me anchored. “So is this part of the job?”
He tilts his head.
“Charming the CEO?” I clarify.
His expression shifts. Barely. But it shifts.
“No,” he says.
I believe him.
I don’t know why, but I do.
Another pause. Another breath caught in the quiet space between words.
Then he says, “I will call on you again.”
And my brain doesn’t even get a vote.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
Too fast.
Too easy.
Too much.
I blink. Straighten. “I mean—sure. Yeah. If you’re—”
“I am.”
His answer comes like gravity. Irrefutable.
The silence between us turns warmer now. Not heavy. Not awkward.
Just… aware.
I stand. The city seems to shimmer a little differently as I do — like something in its architecture just recalibrated.
We don’t say goodbye.
He just watches as I walk the last half-block alone. Close enough to protect, far enough not to intrude.
When I reach the gate of my complex, I glance back.
He’s already gone.
But the heat in my skin says he was real.
Inside, I kick off my shoes, lean against the polished wall of my entryway, and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I tell myself I’m in control.
That this is just a detour. A moment of weakness wrapped in wine and shadowed laughter.
That I’ll wake up tomorrow and get back to reality.
But deep down — beneath the datafeeds and diplomacy and carefully scheduled distractions — I know the truth:
I’m already standing on the edge of something irreversible.
And I’m not sure I want to walk away.