Chapter 11
KELSEA
Bresh never calls us in one-on-one unless something’s gone sideways.
So when Rina finds me backstage after my set—still sweat-slick and breathless, scarf hanging loose around my throat—and says, “Boss wants a word,” I already know I’m not gonna like it.
His office smells like stale cigars and too much money. The kind of place where secrets go to die and come back cheaper. The synthwood desk’s too big for the room, cluttered with ledgers he probably doesn’t read and drink glasses he never washes.
He’s pacing when I walk in. That’s new. Bresh doesn’t pace. Bresh plants and commands.
“Kels,” he says without looking at me.
“Boss.”
“You sit?”
“I’d rather stand.”
He stops, finally meets my eyes. Something twitchy lingers in his shoulders—tension wrapped in silk. He’s wearing one of those faux-mink coats that smells like desperation and mothballs, and it makes the whole moment feel more ridiculous than it should.
Still, my gut’s tight. Something’s coming.
“You legal?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
My throat goes dry. “I work under the name you filed. You’ve seen my certs.”
He shakes his head. “I mean real papers. Coalition issue. Green seal, retinal lock, all that.”
I hold his gaze. “Why?”
“Word is we might be getting visitors. High-collar types. Coalition inspectors.”
My stomach drops, but I keep my face still.
He keeps going. “They’re doing random sector sweeps. Paper checks. Worker logs. And I’m not getting fined or shut down ‘cause one of my girls’s got a shady past.”
I shrug like it’s nothing. “You want me gone?”
“No,” he says, too fast. “I want you covered. I like you, Kelsea. You make the house money. You keep the room full. But I can’t protect what I can’t vouch for.”
I smirk. “Since when do you vouch for anyone?”
He scowls. “Don’t get cute.”
“Then don’t get threatening.”
We stare at each other. Just long enough to confirm neither of us is blinking first.
Then he sighs. Runs a thick hand through thinning hair. “Look. I’m just saying—if you’ve got a contact who can get you clean, now’s the time. I don’t care what it costs or who you gotta bribe. You don’t want to be caught holding nothing when the flashlights come out.”
I nod once, slow. “Got it.”
He waves me off like I’m smoke in his eye. “Go. And Kelsea?”
“Yeah?”
“Be smart.”
I smile, all teeth. “Always.”
Outside his office, I walk steady.
But my lungs are screaming.
I make it to the dressing room, close the door behind me, and lean hard against it, hands shaking. My skin’s too tight. Like my own body doesn’t fit right anymore.
He knows.
Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just guessing.
But either way, the walls are shrinking again.
And I swore I was done running.
Later that night, I stare at the ceiling in my flat. I don’t sleep.
I lie there with the scarf wrapped tight in my fist, the edges frayed from too many nights of needing it more than I want to admit. The light from the comm unit still glows faint beside the bed, that message from Roja long gone, but burned behind my eyes anyway.
I know where he works.
The shipyards run twenty-four, staggered crews working in rust and steam. I wait until I know his shift’s running—fourth bell, cold side—and I pull my hood low, scarf wrapped loose like a promise around my throat, and walk.
The yards hiss and groan as I enter—giant beasts sleeping with their stomachs full of machines.
Oil slicks glint under my boots, and the reek of weld smoke clings to my skin before I even pass the first row of scrap haulers.
Sparks dance in the distance, and somewhere, someone’s yelling over the roar of a plasma torch.
I find him near the south end, bent over a power coupler the size of a coffin, his arms bare and braced as he rewires something too expensive for someone like me to touch.
“Roja,” I call, voice low.
His head snaps up, eyes hard before they soften. Barely.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk.”
His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Well, I am.”
He wipes a hand down his face, leaves a streak of grime across his cheek. “It’s not safe.”
“Nothing is right now.”
He gestures me toward the shadows near the storage crates. Away from sightlines. Away from ears.
“You’re being watched,” he says.
I laugh, bitter. “No kidding. Bresh pulled me into his office tonight. Said inspectors might be coming through. Coalition types. Wants me to either show papers or vanish.”
His hands still. Completely.
“When?”
“Soon. He didn’t say exactly. But he knows. Or suspects. I can feel it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like he’s trying to memorize something.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “I’m fixing it.”
“You going to tell me what that means?”
“No.”
“Roja—”
“Because the less you know, the better.”
My fists clench. “That’s not good enough anymore.”
He leans in closer, voice dropping. “I’m not trying to keep you in the dark. I’m trying to keep you out of it.”
We stare at each other. The hum of the machinery rises and falls around us like breathing. I can smell the ozone from the power grid and the hot metal curling off his skin.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I should. I almost do.
But I can’t say it.
Instead, I say, “I’m not going to Alliance space. I won’t go back.”
He nods once, solemn. “You won’t have to.”
But the way he says it doesn’t feel like a promise.
It feels like a line drawn in ash.
The walk back to my flat feels longer than it is.
Not because the distance has changed, but because something inside me has. My ribs feel too tight around my lungs, and every step echoes like I’m stomping through memories I don’t want anymore. The streetlights flicker as I pass. One goes out behind me.
Omen or faulty wiring—I don’t care.
The moment I close the door behind me, I lock every bolt. The sound of them sliding home is louder than it should be. I stand there for a minute, forehead pressed to the cold metal, letting myself breathe in this tiny pocket of stillness.
But I’m not still.
I’m buzzing. Fractured. Full of a thousand thoughts moving too fast to catch.
Roja’s words are still in my ears. I’m fixing it. He means it. I know he does. But he’s not the one whose name is on a dozen no-fly lists and a sealed warrant in Alliance space.
I am.
And I know better than to think promises keep people safe.
I cross to the closet, drop to my knees, and pull out the old bag. The one with the hidden pocket stitched in under the liner. My fingers find the split seam without looking.
The ID is still there.
The name printed across it makes me want to throw up. It’s mine. But not mine. A version of me that never got the chance to grow out of fear.
The face is younger. Hair tighter. Eyes flatter. A ghost of a girl who flinched too easy and trusted too fast.
I carry it to the sink.
The lighter’s already there. I keep it stashed for candles, incense, whatever excuse I’ve told myself over the years.
I flick it once.
Twice.
Third time, the flame holds.
I don’t hesitate. Just press the corner of the ID into the fire and watch it blacken.
The plastic curls like it’s trying to hold on. The image distorts, warps, disappears. I hold it until the flames lick my knuckles and I drop it into the metal basin.
It doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg.
Just melts. Quiet and final.
The smell’s chemical and sharp, like the way my past used to taste.
I watch until there’s nothing left but a slick puddle of ruin.
“I’m not her,” I whisper.
My voice is steady.
“I’m not her anymore.”
I rinse the ashes down the drain, scrub the sink clean, and toss the lighter in the trash.
I won’t survive as that girl. Not again. Not with what’s coming.
So she’s gone.
Burned.
And I’m what’s left.