Chapter 19
ROJA
I’m running out of shadows to hide her in.
The streets are tighter now. Less air. Less room to move without eyes crawling over your shoulders. Word travels fast in a place like Jark, and after the raid, I can feel it—like the whole damn city’s leaning in, sniffing for blood.
I can't keep her buried in my quarters. Not forever.
So I do what I promised myself I wouldn’t: I reach out.
It's a name I haven’t said in years. Buried deep in an old comm unit I never connected to any network. The kind of contact that doesn’t show up on registries. My last handler.
When the screen flickers to life, his face looks older, sicker—like the war finally got bored of him and decided to rot him from the inside out.
“Roja,” he says. That’s all. No ‘hello.’ No ‘you’re alive?’
“I need a favor.”
His laugh is a slow wheeze. “You disappeared. Burned your ID, vanished into factory work. And now you’re crawling back?”
“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important.”
“What is it?”
I send the encrypted file. “Proof of bribery. Coalition cleric. Ties to Alliance family. They’re using it to come after someone. Innocent.”
His face tightens. “And you want?”
“For it to go public. Loud. Anonymous. Viral enough to light a fire under the governor’s ass.”
“That’s not a favor. That’s a reckoning.”
I say nothing.
He leans in. “Who is she?”
I hang up.
Later, when I explain it all, Kelsea doesn’t like the plan.
“You’re what?” she says, eyes wide, voice low and sharp.
I nod, calm as I can. “It’s the only way. We can’t keep dancing around this. If we go through official channels, it’ll vanish. Buried before it breathes. But if it’s public…”
“They’ll know it’s you.”
“Maybe. But they won’t prove it.”
She shakes her head, pacing. “You think that makes me feel better?”
“No. But it’s the only leverage we’ve got.”
She looks up at me, fire flashing in those eyes. “You’re gambling with your life.”
“I’ve gambled with worse.”
She’s quiet. Then: “And what happens after?”
“We watch. We wait. And if it doesn’t stick, we run.”
She exhales, sharp. “I don’t run well.”
I step closer. “Neither do I.”
There’s a beat where we just stand there, her hands clenched, mine still holding the drive. The air between us hums with fear and something heavier—resolve, maybe.
She finally says, “Okay. Do it.”
And just like that, the last line’s been drawn.
I’ve always known my time would come sharp and loud. Not slow like disease or soft like sleep. Just a flash—burned nerves, a splatter of blood, maybe not even my own. That’s the way enforcers go when they outlive their usefulness.
And here I am, shoving a pulse grenade into a wall panel, calibrating the motion sensor to detect anyone but her.
It’s not that I want to die. It’s that I know how to prepare for it.
Kelsea’s on the cot, back pressed to the wall like she’s trying to disappear into the steel. She hasn’t said a word in two hours, but she watches everything—like she’s memorizing escape routes I haven’t drawn yet.
She’s angry. Still coiled from our last fight. But more than that, she’s scared. We both are.
I dig out the long case, the one under the bed where I swore I’d never look again.
The lock clicks open, and there it is—my real history.
Old sidearms, grip-worn from missions that never made the records. Knives with blackened edges and broken hilts. A sniper coil I built from scavenged tech during a siege on Balthus Prime. Blood’s still on the barrel. I don’t clean it anymore.
She shifts when she sees the weapons. Not afraid. Just... quiet.
“Wasn’t sure I’d need these again,” I mutter, pulling a short blade free, testing the weight. Still balanced. Still perfect.
Kelsea’s voice is low, but it cuts. “You always knew you might.”
I glance at her. “Yeah. I did.”
She doesn’t flinch when I lay the coilgun on the table. Doesn’t blink when I wire the fallback charge under the floor mat. Just stares.
“What are you expecting?” she asks finally.
“Anyone,” I answer. “Everyone. That leak’s gonna burn hot. Someone’s gonna want me gone before the flames spread.”
Her jaw works, like she’s chewing the words before she speaks. “And you’re ready for that?”
“I’ve been ready since before I met you.”
She looks down at her hands. “That’s not supposed to make me feel better, you know.”
I pause, then step toward her, lowering myself onto the cot’s edge. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m making sure you survive it.”
She doesn’t look up, but her fingers twitch. “What if I don’t want to survive it without you?”
The words sit between us, heavy and raw.
I reach out, press a hand to her shoulder. She stiffens, then leans—just barely—into the touch.
“You will,” I say quietly. “Because you’re stronger than you think.”
She finally lifts her eyes to mine. “And what about you? You gonna run if this goes sideways?”
“No,” I say. “I’ll finish what I started.”
We sit there a long while, not talking. Just listening—to the creak of the metal around us, the distant hum of power lines, the quiet breath of waiting.
Eventually, she reaches for my hand.
Not quick. Not desperate.
Just deliberate. Final.
Her palm finds mine, her fingers curling in tight.
I don’t say anything. Just grip back. Let her have that certainty, even if it’s borrowed.
“Roja,” she says softly.
“Yeah?”
“If we make it out of this… if we burn it all down and walk away… what then?”
I meet her eyes.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I want to find out.”
She doesn’t smile.
But her fingers don’t let go.
And for now, that’s enough.