Chapter 4
ROJA
Idon’t go back to the Crimson Coil.
Not for three days.
I bury myself in work instead. Welding plates on suborbital engine struts, hammering down heat-seals in the rain where the dome vents don’t quite cover. The shifts drag, hours smeared together in the grind of heat and metal. My gloves steam. My shoulders ache.
The other guys notice. Of course they do. Grel makes a crack about me being even grumpier than usual. Jex says I must’ve started mating season early. I don’t answer either of them. I just grunt and burn another rivet line deep into the bulkhead.
They don’t get it. How could they?
It’s not about sex.
It’s not even about the show.
It’s about her.
That human woman with fire in her hands and sadness in her spine. The one who dances like it’s the only time she’s not afraid.
The way she looked at me in that alley… Not scared. Not really. Wary, yeah. Ready to bolt. But underneath it—questions. Heat. Hunger maybe, if I read her right.
And I haven’t been able to stop seeing her face since.
Every time I close my eyes, there she is. Pale skin kissed by firelight. Eyes wide and sharp. Mouth twitching with the words she didn’t say. The sound of her voice soft and raw when she whispered thanks, like she didn’t know what I’d do with it.
She thinks I’m some kind of threat.
She’s not wrong.
I don’t want to want her. I don’t want to need anything. I gave up wanting when I left the black squads behind. Desire gets you compromised. Gets you twisted. Gets you dead.
But she’s in my blood now.
I spend my breaks staring at the floor instead of eating. My nights pacing instead of sleeping. My skin feels too tight. My chest too small.
It’s like the world’s shifted just a few degrees sideways, and I can’t quite find my balance anymore.
I shouldn’t go back.
But of course, after my shift that’s just what I do. I don’t plan it.
Just find myself outside the Crimson Coil again, collar turned up against the wind, boots wet with the city’s filth.
The glow of the sign pulses against the haze like a heartbeat, red and relentless.
I stand across the street for a long minute, just breathing in the stink of fried oil, spilled synth-spice, and the electric musk of bodies packed too tight inside.
I don’t go in to watch the stage.
I don’t need to see her dance again. That image is etched behind my eyes like plasma burn.
Instead, I duck into the front bar, nod once at the bartender—Luth, I think his name is. Grumpy human with a decent pour and a memory for regulars.
He doesn’t smile when he sees me, but he doesn’t flinch either. That’s something.
I pull the scarf from my coat pocket. Fireproof fiber mesh, soft but strong, matte black with subtle silver threadwork.
It’s not pretty, but it’s durable. Custom made, back when I used to know people who owed favors in the textile corps.
I don’t say who it’s for. Don’t need to.
Luth raises a brow, shrugs, and tucks it behind the bar.
“You want me to—”
“No name,” I cut in. “Just… if she wants it.”
He nods. Doesn’t push.
I leave before the curtain goes up. Before I hear the music. My claws itch the whole walk out.
Back home, I throw off my coat and drop into the workbench chair in the corner. The place smells like metal dust and old engine oil. It’s barely more than a single room with a heater core, a cold slab for a bed, and too many memories pressed into the walls.
I pull the blade case from the wall. Lay them out one by one. Six knives, each with a name etched in the handle. Not real names—code names. Ghosts.
I don’t need them anymore.
I still sharpen them. Habit. Something to keep my hands busy while my brain chews itself raw.
The stone whispers against steel, steady and familiar. My eyes track the motion, but my mind isn’t on the blades.
It’s on her.
The way her voice shook when she asked if I was watching her. Like she didn’t know if she should be afraid… or something else.
The way her hands trembled just slightly when she took the bracelet back. The chain had been warm from my palm. I wonder if she noticed.
I grit my teeth and drag the blade across the whetstone again, harder.
This is stupid. I know better.
Letting people in gets you compromised. Gets you dead. Or worse—gets them dead. And I’ve already buried enough.
I think about the last time I let someone close. Not just physically. Closer. Past the surface. Past the mission.
I remember her name, but I won’t speak it. Not even here. Not even now.
She’d smiled too much. Laughed like nothing could touch her. Until the day they sent me a list. And her name was on it.
And I didn’t follow that order.
I didn’t pull the trigger.
Didn’t stop the others either.
After that, I wasn’t one of them anymore. Didn’t matter how many kills were under my belt. How many medals tucked in black folders. I refused, and they called it failure. Called me unstable. Unreliable.
They stripped my rank. Burned my clearances. Sent me to rot in the yards with a torch and a curfew.
I should’ve been glad.
Freedom, right?
But it’s never that simple. Not when the only thing left is regret and blades you can’t seem to stop sharpening.
And now there’s her.
She’s a complication I can’t afford.
But when I close my eyes, I see her lit by flame, every move a question I don’t know how to answer.
I’m not walking away.
Not yet.