Chapter 13
KELSEA
Iknow they’re coming before the comms confirm it.
The air changes first—goes thin and sharp, like it’s holding its own breath. Then Bresh starts pacing, not his usual lazy laps, but tight, fast turns like he's coiled and ready to snap. He doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t speak. Just moves like a man waiting to be hit.
That’s when I feel it.
The weight of it pressing through the walls, the floor, the stage itself. The casino’s bright chatter dims beneath it. Music from the main floor skips, then dies. Someone laughs too loud near the card tables. It echoes wrong.
I’m already moving when I hear the front doors hiss open.
Boots. Four sets. Maybe five. Too even. Too clean. They don’t clack like the usual foot traffic in here—they strike. Deliberate. Heavy. Official.
Ceera intercepts me at the hall. “Kels—what the hell?”
I grip her elbow. “Inspectors.”
Her eyes go wide. She nods, doesn’t speak, and bolts down the opposite hall.
My hands are slick with sweat. I don’t think—I react. I shove past costume racks, knocking over a headless mannequin, and throw open the laundry chute door like it might bite me.
It’s black inside. Rank with the stink of mold, old soap, and metal that’s sweated out years of secrets. The last time someone cleaned it, the galaxy still had monarchs.
I climb in fast, knees catching on the edge, shoulder scraping the frame. The chute is narrow, barely wider than me, lined with grime and threadbare linens. I pull the door shut behind me with a soft clang and curl tight into the corner, chest pressing against cold steel.
My breath’s coming too fast. I grab a damp towel, stuffy and sour, and hold it over my mouth to muffle the sound.
The hallway creaks above. I flinch.
Voices now. Calm. Measured. One female. One male. Another I can’t place. They're asking for logs. Shifts. Real names.
Someone lies. I hear it in the tremble of his voice. Bresh. He’s spinning stories—pulling staff numbers from memory like he’s done this before.
Please, don’t crack. Please, don’t.
Footsteps again. Closer this time. Sharp echoes. Someone’s walking slow, real slow, like they’re listening for ghosts.
A bead of sweat slips from my temple into my eye. I don’t blink. I don’t wipe it.
The chute’s metal is slick under my spine, but I don’t dare move. Not even an inch.
My legs go numb first. Pins and needles crawl up from my feet like insects chewing through nerves. Then my back knots. I shift just enough to breathe, and something clinks above—maybe a clipboard, maybe a gun.
I hold my breath.
Silence.
A low voice, almost amused: “No performers present?”
Bresh replies. Too quickly.
They don’t believe him.
The woman’s voice: “We’ll sweep.”
The words echo. We’ll sweep.
My lungs seize. My whole body’s a tremor. I bury my face deeper into the towel, bite it.
Don’t move. Don’t cough. Don’t even think too loud.
Time stops meaning anything. Minutes stretch into nightmares. I lose count. I lose names.
I become heat and ache and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
A faint shuffle at the chute door.
A whisper.
“Kelsea,” Ceera breathes. “They’re gone.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
She opens the door, and light spills in. I blink against it like a thing dragged from the underworld. I crawl out on shaking limbs, knees clanging to the tile. My hair’s matted, clothes soaked in mildew and sweat. My teeth chatter as I breathe.
Ceera catches me by the arm. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine,” I rasp.
“You’re shaking.”
“I said—I’m fine.”
But I’m not.
I’m still there.
Still hiding.
Still listening for footsteps.
When I get home, the towel’s still in the sink, shriveled and sour with mildew, and I can’t bring myself to touch it. I don’t clean. I don’t move. I just sit with my back against the wall, knees hugged to my chest, staring at nothing.
The room’s dim except for the flicker of a faulty strip light overhead. Shadows stretch long. Every noise from the hallway outside makes my heart jump—every footstep, every creak of piping.
Then comes the knock. Three soft taps.
I freeze.
My breath catches.
Then comes the hinge groan.
Roja.
He steps inside like the shadows make room for him. Like he’s not entering but returning.
I don’t look at him. Not right away.
He doesn’t say a damn thing. Just closes the door with a slow, deliberate push. His boots are quiet. His coat smells like hot metal and shipyard dust when he passes. I feel him move through the space more than I see him.
He heads for the burner. Pulls down the old steel kettle I keep for show more than use. His movements are slow, precise. Like ceremony. Like he’s done this before—on nights like this, with someone else’s panic hanging thick in the room.
Water. Flame. Steam.
He opens the tea tin like it matters. Like this ritual might hold something together that’s trying to come apart.
I finally look up.
“You knew I was here?”
“Didn’t need to know. Just felt it.”
I wrap my arms tighter around myself.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, nodding toward my forearm.
I glance down. Must’ve scraped it climbing out of the chute. Didn’t notice.
“It’s fine.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fuss. Just finishes steeping the leaves and slides one of the chipped mugs across the floor toward me.
The porcelain is warm when I pick it up, and for a second that’s the only thing I can feel—heat in my hands, something real, something that won’t vanish.
He sits down opposite me, legs crossed, one hand wrapped around his own mug. His claws tap quietly against the ceramic.
“It’s not over yet,” he says.
I know.
I sip slowly. The taste is bitter. Stronger than I remember.
I don’t look at him when I speak.
“What were you, before?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate.
“Assassin,” he says.
My throat tightens, but I nod.
“Coalition?”
He nods once.
“Enforcement?”
“Black mark division.”
Silence again.
I take another sip. Let it burn on the way down.
“Why’d you stop?” I ask.
He leans back, head resting against the cabinet. “One job too far. One kid too young. One mistake too big to forget.”
“Was it sanctioned?”
“They’re all sanctioned.”
The quiet stretches between us. Not empty. Just full of everything we don’t ask.
I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t meet them.
“You want to ask what I did,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”
I nod.
“I won’t ask either,” I say.
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Thank you.”
We sit like that for a long time. The hum of the city outside filters through the cracked windows. Somewhere, a siren wails. Farther away, a train screeches on rusted tracks. But here, in this room, there’s just warmth between our hands and the soft sound of breath.
The weight in my chest doesn’t lift, but it settles.
Roja breaks the quiet, voice soft. “I’ll stay till morning. If you want.”
I nod.
He moves to the wall beside me, not touching, just near.
We sit in silence.
Not because we’re afraid to speak.
But because for once, we don’t have to.