Chapter 15
KELSEA
The music hits, and I hit back. I force my body into rhythm, twisting through the heat of the spotlights with the scarf in my hand snapping through the air like a whip. The fire breathes around me, curling just shy of skin, but it’s too close tonight. Everything feels too close.
I catch a glimpse of a man in the crowd—dark coat, still, watching—not clapping, not smiling. I miss my cue by half a breath and nearly fumble the next spin. My toes ache. My left calf cramps. My back is slick with sweat and not just from the routine.
The audience doesn’t notice. But I do. I always do.
Backstage, Ceera’s waiting. Her face folds the second she sees me—like she’s been holding her breath.
“You’re limping,” she says, handing me a bottle that I nearly drop.
“I’m fine.”
“You missed the last pivot.”
“Wasn’t feeling it,” I mutter, sucking water through clenched teeth.
Her eyes narrow. “Kelsea—”
“I said I’m fine.”
The silence stretches between us like a fault line.
“You look like hell,” she says finally.
I snap my head toward her. “And you look like someone who should mind her own damn business.”
Her jaw sets. “I am minding it. You’re part of it. You forget that?”
I toss the bottle at the wall—it bounces, clatters to the floor. “Don’t lecture me.”
“I’m not,” she bites back. “I’m trying to figure out if I need to start looking for your replacement because you’re about to burn out and take us all with you.”
My fists ball. My throat burns. “Maybe I should just go, then.”
Her voice drops, sharp and cold. “Maybe you should.”
I don’t wait to see her face twist into something worse.
The back door slams behind me with a clatter that echoes through the alley.
Rain’s started. Gentle, barely there. Just enough to turn the air metallic and cling to skin like static. I breathe deep, trying to scrub the heat off my tongue.
I don’t know where I’m going. My boots slap against wet pavement, kicking up shallow puddles. Neon signs smear across the ground, pulsing with garish blues and sickly reds. My scarf sticks to my wrist, damp and useless now.
My legs take me through market rows half-shuttered. I smell fried grease, rust, wet fabric. I duck past an old vendor I recognize—he doesn’t even lift his head.
Past a loading bay where two workers argue in low tones. Past a bench where a woman cries into her hands. Past a maintenance droid blinking red, voice box glitching into soft static.
I end up staring down a dark alley, the walls sweating rainwater. I lean against one, press my forehead to the cool synth-stone, breathing hard. My breath fogs and clings to the surface.
What the hell am I doing?
I slide down the wall until I’m crouched on the ground, arms around my knees. My whole body trembles—not from cold, from exhaustion. From the weight I’ve been carrying since the inspectors started sniffing, since Roja said he was fixing it.
Fixing it. What does that even mean?
My eyes burn. I blink fast.
Down the alley, a kid sleeps in the corner beside a busted crate, curled up with a threadbare synth-rabbit tucked under his chin. He’s maybe six. Maybe five. His face is smudged with oil and dust, but peaceful.
I dig the last credit chip from my pocket, fingers numb, and walk it over. Kneel. Set it beside his little hand.
He doesn’t wake.
I stare at him a second longer than I should, then turn and walk away before I let something break open in my chest.
The hours blur. My feet move on autopilot.
Somewhere near the water-processing plant, I find myself by the edge of the dry canal. The city buzzes behind me, but here it’s quieter—just the low hum of water pumps and distant sirens. I crouch at the lip, looking down at the murky reflection rippling beneath.
My hair’s plastered to my face. My skin looks gray in the light.
My reflection doesn’t look like me anymore.
I stare at it, unblinking, waiting for the moment when it might morph into someone I recognize.
It doesn’t come.
I sit on the edge, knees pulled to my chest. Not crying. Just existing.
It’s stupid to come here.
I know it the second my boots hit the grated walkway toward the shipyard dorms. The whole place hums like a breathing thing—metal cooling under moonlight, distant grind of gears shifting somewhere behind the main platforms. Air’s sharp with coolant and ozone, and there’s this oily taste on the back of my tongue I can’t spit out.
Roja’s not here. I knew he wouldn’t be. But it’s not like I had anywhere else left to go.
The maintenance dorms are tucked behind loading hangars, near the edge of the outer fence—out of sight, out of mind. I move fast, sticking to the shadows like I’ve done all my life, and when I reach his door, I don’t hesitate.
The tool’s small, black, worn smooth from hiding in my boot for weeks. I never told him I had it. I don’t know why I kept it.
The lock clicks. I slide inside and let the dark swallow me whole.
His quarters are utilitarian—like the man. Neat. Trimmed down to what he needs and nothing else. A single bunk, tight corners, a folding desk bolted to the wall. The light from the hall cuts in just enough to show a few personal things.
I move closer, careful not to disturb anything. There’s a compact knife near the pillow. Old military issue. The kind you don’t get unless you served in units that do things no one writes down. There’s a locked case half-pushed under the bed. I crouch, fingers brushing the surface. Cold. Seamless.
I don’t try to open it.
I just sit on the edge of the bed, elbows to knees, hands empty in my lap.
The silence here is thick. Not just quiet—dense. Like secrets soaking into the walls. It’s too much. Too loud in my head.
I stare at the case again, then whisper, “Who the hell are you really?”
My throat goes tight.
I drop my head.
And just sit there.
I don’t know how long passes before I hear the hiss of the door opening behind me.
I freeze.
Heavy boots. A pause. Then the door hisses shut again.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just walks in. Quiet steps. Careful.
When he sits next to me, I feel the bed dip. He’s close, but he doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t ask why I’m here.
I breathe slow, trying to settle the tremble in my chest. Then, without looking at him, I speak.
“If this goes bad... you don’t owe me anything.”
The words drop into the dark like stones.
He doesn’t flinch. His answer comes without pause.
“That’s not how this works.”
I turn my head slowly, searching his face.
“You keep saying that like it means something.”
“It does.”
“You don’t even know what I’ve done.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Yes, you do,” I snap, voice suddenly raw. “You need to know who I am before you go making choices like that.”
His jaw tightens. “I know enough.”
“You don’t know anything.”
He exhales. “Try me.”
I clasp my hands tighter in my lap. “I killed someone. Not in a shootout. Not in a crossfire. It wasn’t justified. It wasn’t self-defense. It was messy, and it was personal, and I didn’t regret it.”
Silence.
Then, finally, softly: “I know.”
My eyes cut to him. “You what?”
“I figured it out,” he says, calmly. “A while ago.”
I blink. “And you didn’t say anything?”
“You weren’t ready.”
I laugh. Sharp, bitter. “Ready for what? You to drop me off at the nearest checkpoint with a pat on the head and a good luck wish?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’ve done worse.”
His voice is flat. Final.
I stop. The fight drains from my chest.
“Roja…” I whisper.
He leans forward, elbows to knees, mirroring my posture. “That case under the bed? That’s not a keepsake box. It’s a tactical kit. I built it after I left enforcement. Has enough gear to disappear or destroy a room. Depending on the day.”
I stare at him.
“I worked black contracts for the Coalition. Extraction, erasure, loyalty enforcement. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want questions.”
I whisper, “Why’d you leave?”
He shrugs, slow. “Stopped believing in the flags they wrapped bodies in.”
We sit in silence.
The weight of our pasts is a physical thing in the room. A gravity.
I finally ask, “Do you think it matters? What we did?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then: “Only if it keeps us from doing something better now.”
I blink hard. “And what’s that?”
He looks at me. Really looks.
“Keeping each other alive.”