Chapter 18
KELSEA
It’s chaos.
Sirens wail sharp through the mid-morning din, cutting over music and chatter like a blade.
I smell ozone and panic the moment the first Coalition badge flashes near the front entrance of the casino.
The air goes dense. Heavy. Like the whole damn building inhales at once and forgets how to let it out.
Ceera’s voice is in my ear before I even register moving. “Back room. Now.”
She grabs my wrist and yanks me past the drink station, through the staff corridor that reeks of sweat, oil, and stale liquor. My pulse is so loud in my ears it feels like someone’s beating a drum behind my eyes.
“They’re not just checking papers,” Ceera pants as we hit the supply closet. “They’re sweeping.”
“What?” My throat is dry. My voice breaks like old wood.
“They’re not asking. They’re pulling anyone who doesn’t have credentials on file.”
I freeze.
I know this. This is how it starts. Sweeps. Detainment. Disappearances dressed up as protocol.
Ceera pushes a mop cart aside with a grunt, revealing a maintenance tunnel hatch. She kicks it open and points. “Go. You know the route. I’ll stall as long as I can.”
“Ceera—”
She grabs my face with both hands. “You’re my sister, Kels. Not by blood, but in every way that matters. Now move.”
I don’t say thank you. I just run.
Down steel stairs that smell like piss and rust. Past dark turns and flickering maintenance lights. My side cramps halfway through, but I don’t stop. I don’t think. Just legs, lungs, and the single image in my head of Roja’s quarters. Safe. Armored. Trapped.
By the time I reach the outer yard and sneak past the shipyard gates, I’m soaked in sweat. My palms burn from the ladder climb. My hair clings to my face and my chest aches with every breath.
I make it to Roja’s.
I pound on the door with the last strength I’ve got.
He opens it fast—must’ve heard me coming.
His eyes flash sharp, then soften. “Get in.”
I fall past the threshold, knees buckling. He catches me before I hit the floor, kicks the door shut with his boot. Bolts slide. Locks turn. He arms every latch, every trap in sequence like he’s done it a hundred times.
I lean against the wall, trembling.
“They came,” I manage to say.
“I know.”
“They were looking for me.”
“I know,” he says again. Not cold. Not surprised. Just ready.
He checks the last trigger on the floorboard near the entrance. Then turns, crosses to me, and crouches low.
His hand cups my cheek.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just...”
“Just scared.” He finishes it for me.
I nod. Once. Barely.
He pulls me into him. I don’t resist. I fold. Completely.
I feel the steady thrum of his heart under my cheek, the warmth of his skin seeping into mine. His hands are on my back, steady and sure.
“It’s real now,” I whisper.
“It’s been real,” he replies. “This is just the part where they show their teeth.”
He holds me until my shaking slows. Until I can breathe again.
And even then, he doesn’t let go.
“I hate that I let myself believe the quiet meant safe.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.” My voice is breaking now, sharp and cracking around the edges. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how close it was. Ceera—she had to shove me into a damn tunnel.”
Still, he says nothing.
I want him to yell back. To fight me. To do something.
Instead, he watches me unravel, bit by bit, like he's letting me burn it all down.
“I should’ve left,” I say, quieter now. “When I had the chance. I should’ve known better than to think I could stay anywhere longer than a season.”
Silence.
“I should’ve known better than to think I could trust you.”
That hits. I see it. A flicker in his jaw, the way his shoulders go still. But he doesn’t rise to it.
I shake my head, furious tears scalding the corners of my eyes. “Say something, damn it.”
But he doesn't.
And that—that—breaks me more than any word could.
I sink to the floor, my back against the cold wall, burying my face in my hands. The tears come fast now, hot and hard, pulled up from somewhere deep.
I hate that I’m crying.
I hate that I’m still here.
I feel the blanket before I see it—coarse and warm, tucked gently around my shoulders. Roja crouches in front of me, his voice low.
“We’re not done yet.”
That’s all he says.
No speech. No soft apology. Just that promise. That anchor.
And gods help me, I believe him.
Later, after the panic has dulled into silence and I’ve stopped flinching at every creak of the hull, Roja brings out a drive.
He sets it on the table between us like it’s a weapon. Maybe it is.
“This is what they’re using,” he says, voice low and flat. “Bribes. A cleric pushing for your deportation. The trail’s dirty—covered in shell IDs and layered messages. But this? This is real.”
I stare at it. My gut twists.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why come after me like this?”
Roja doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he taps the drive once, then drags a folder onto the screen. A list of transactions appears—cold, clinical. Numbers and names. One of them glows red.
I recognize it instantly.
Joren Talaas.
My mouth dries out. “That’s not possible. He’s dead.”
Roja nods. “He is. But his family’s not. And someone with pull—someone tied to them—paid to flag your name. Paid to make sure it didn’t stay buried.”
The room spins.
I thought I left this behind. I thought crossing the stars, burying my name, burning my past would be enough.
Apparently, the past has longer arms than I realized.
I sit back, hand pressed to my stomach, like I can stop the churn with pressure alone. “They’re trying to finish what he started.”
Roja’s eyes are on me, unreadable. “That’s the idea.”
I laugh, hollow and short. “I should’ve killed his brother too.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t.”
“They’re going to keep coming.”
“I know.”
“And you’re what—planning to hold them off with homemade traps and a half-broken door?”
He leans back. “No. I’m planning something else.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He points at the screen. “This evidence? It doesn’t go to the authorities. Not yet. I need to know how to use it—when to use it—without it backfiring.”
I stare at the glowing name again.
And the bile rises in my throat.
The room smells like metal and dust and something faintly burnt. My hands are slick with sweat, and I can still hear the sound of sirens in the back of my mind.
Roja watches me. He doesn't move.
I finally whisper, “It’s not over.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
But he doesn’t reach for me.
He lets me sit with it, lets me feel the weight of the thing I tried to bury. That part of me that still screams when I sleep. That remembers the look on Joren’s face as he fell.
I don’t cry.
Not this time.
But gods, I want to.