Chapter 27 Roja
ROJA
The air in the industrial yards is thick with memory.
I swear, it’s like breathing in ghosts. Coolant, plasma scarring, burnt metal—it clings to your nose hairs and settles in your chest like regret.
I take the long path. Boots crunching over gravel that’s seen more spilt oil than rainwater.
My footsteps echo against the sides of old hulls, ribbed like the underbellies of beasts, long stripped down for scrap or repurposed.
The yards hum like they’re alive. Buzz of arc welders, clangs of mech arms, distant shouting between deck leads.
It used to be home. Kind of. The only place that didn’t ask too many questions.
Where I could put my head down, burn metal together, and not have to think about the past—or the future.
Just the next weld, the next plate, the next ship.
That was before.
Now? Everything’s louder. Sharper. My thoughts refuse to dull like they used to. I used to bury shit in work. Let the weight of steel drown the weight in my chest. Now, I can’t even fake it.
Ahead, Dock C looms. One of the big freighters is getting loaded—crates stacked on hover sleds, drones weaving between workers like impatient bees.
And there it is. That starboard paneling near the rear engine cluster—my welds.
Tight and clean. I remember the burn of the torch in my palm, the sting of sweat sliding under my collar, the ache in my knees from crouching under that wing for hours.
I stop and watch. She’s ready for space, that bird. She’ll survive storms and pirates and system-jumps. Because of my hands.
“Roja?”
I don’t even flinch. The voice is familiar—Supervisor Tran, same clipped tone, same grease-slicked ponytail and permanent squint like she’s seen too many weld lines go sideways.
“Didn’t expect to see your ugly mug,” she says, wiping her hands on a rag as she approaches.
“Didn’t expect to come back,” I reply.
“You here for work?”
I shake my head. “Just… walking.”
Tran studies me, the way she always did—like I’m a machine she hasn’t figured out how to calibrate. “You still chasing shadows?”
I huff. “Nah. Just living with ‘em.”
She makes a sound—almost a chuckle. “Well, we’re behind on crews. Had two greenhorns quit after one shift. Could use someone who doesn’t cry when sparks fly.”
I glance back toward the freighter. “Appreciate it, Tran. Really. But I’m not looking for quiet right now.”
“That what you think this is? Quiet?”
“Quiet enough to forget yourself in.”
She crosses her arms. “You used to like that.”
“I used to like a lot of things that were bad for me.”
Tran nods once. “Fair.”
We stand there. Just two worn-down souls in a place built to wear you down. Wind kicks up dust from under a crane. Someone yells about missing cargo tags. A drone beeps, annoyed, and zips past us.
“Y’know,” she says, voice lower now, “that ship? You put a lot of heart into her. Didn’t have to. You did anyway.”
“She needed to hold.”
“She will. Like hell.”
I nod, staring at the ship. “Then my part’s done.”
Tran sighs. “Offer stands. Anytime. You want to disappear again? We’ve got a spot.”
“That’s the thing,” I say, turning to her. “I’m tired of disappearing. And the person I’m with now? She sees me. Doesn’t let me vanish.”
That gets her to raise her eyebrows. “Someone got through your thick skull?”
I smile. “Kicked the door down and rewired the circuits.”
Tran whistles low. “Well, damn. Good for you.”
She doesn’t press. That’s always been her thing. She offers. You take it or you don’t. No guilt. No drama. Just keeps moving. Like the yards.
“Take care, Roja.”
“You too.”
She walks off, boots heavy against the ferrocrete. I stand there a moment longer, staring at the freighter. My weld lines catch the light just right. Subtle. Strong. Meant to be forgotten.
But this time, I won’t be.
The day starts with a hiss of old plumbing and the bitter smell of recycled coffee.
The kind that tastes like it’s been boiled twice and filtered through regret.
Kelsea’s still asleep when I slip out of bed—curled under the sheets like she’s guarding a dream she doesn’t want to lose.
I don’t wake her. This isn’t something I need to explain.
I pull on my boots, grab my tools from the crate by the door, and start with the front panel by the entryway.
The old security system’s got a blinking red light like a dying heart, and the wiring’s spaghetti—someone’s amateur hour patch job.
The wall groans when I peel it open. Dust spills out, thick and dry like it remembers the days when this place was just concrete and ghosts.
I reroute power through a microfilter, install a directional receiver—something military surplus I picked up ages ago and never had a use for.
It’s overkill, but that’s the point. I want her to feel safe.
Hell, I want to feel safe. But I don’t know how to say that, so I wire it into the walls instead.
Halfway through rewiring the motion sensors, I slice my thumb open on a jagged bracket. The pain’s sharp, real. Blood wells up, warm and bright. I suck it clean, grit my teeth, and keep going. A little pain feels honest. It reminds me I’m doing something that matters.
By mid-morning, the apartment smells like solder smoke and electrical burn.
I’ve got sweat in my eyes and a knot in my shoulder from crouching too long under the kitchen sink.
The water line’s older than I thought—copper flaking like old leaves.
I swap in a new connector, reinforce the bracket with a carbon-bonded sleeve.
When I test it, the faucet hisses, spits, and finally lets out a stream clean and strong enough to make me grin.
“You're bleeding,” Kelsea says behind me, voice still scratchy from sleep.
I jump a little. Didn’t hear her come in. She’s leaning in the doorway, wrapped in the blanket from our bed, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded. She glances at the stove where the remnants of my earlier attempt at breakfast sit cold in the pan.
“Caught a bracket,” I say, showing her the bandaged thumb. “Nothing big.”
She pads over, barefoot, and takes my hand like it’s a thing made of glass. “This doesn’t count as a normal morning, you know.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I pull my hand back gently, turn toward the comm panel. “The relay was noisy. I fixed it.”
“You’ve been tearing this place apart since dawn.”
I glance at her. “I’m making it better.”
“Better, or safer?”
I don’t answer. She doesn’t push.
Instead, she watches as I pull the old buffer chip from the comm hub and replace it with a new one—one I etched myself. Signal encrypted six ways, dead drops laced into the outbound pings. She doesn’t need to know the specifics. She just needs to know it’s harder for anyone to listen in now.
“Roja,” she says after a while, “you don’t have to keep proving something to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then who?”
My jaw tightens. I don’t say a word. Just tighten the bracket on the new comm node and close the panel.
Kelsea crosses her arms, but her voice softens. “Is this what love looks like to you? Wires and sensors and silent mornings?”
I shrug. “It’s how I know how to care.”
She tilts her head, considering. Then she smiles—barely. “You’re terrible at pancakes.”
“I didn’t burn them last time.”
“You nearly set off the fire alarm.”
“Still edible.”
“Charcoal is not a spice.”
We stare at each other a beat too long. Then she steps forward, cups my face in both hands, her palms warm against the stubble on my jaw.
“You don’t have to build a fortress,” she murmurs. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
I look at her then, really look. Hair tousled, eyes still soft with sleep, lips chapped from the night air. And all I can think is: this—this is what the fortress is for. Not to keep the world out. To keep her in.
I rest my forehead against hers.
“I know,” I whisper.
But I still finish the upgrades.
Because love isn’t just words. It’s action. It’s being the wall that won’t fall, the door that won’t break, the hand that fixes things in silence.
And when the world comes knocking again, I want her to know—this place, this life, this quiet corner we’ve carved out—it’ll hold.
Later, the night air’s cooler than usual, a soft wind pulling in from the east that smells like old freight dust and ozone.
It’s quiet in the way only late hours can be—when the city exhales and the noise crawls back into its hole.
I find her there, right where I figured she’d be, cross-legged on the balcony ledge, staring off at the dark curve of the horizon like it owes her something.
She doesn’t look up when I step out. Doesn’t flinch. Just slides her hand out behind her, palm up, wordless. I take it.
Her fingers are cold. I wrap mine around them, gentle, and sit beside her, both of us leaning into the railing, shoulders touching.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, my voice low.
She shrugs. “About nothing. About everything. You ever do that?”
“Only every damn day.”
She huffs a soft breath, not quite a laugh. Then, after a pause: “We’re not running anymore.”
I nod. “No.”
She turns her head, eyes catching mine in the dark. “So what do you want now?”
I glance out at the skyline, the shimmer of blinking lights and stillness. Then I look back at her. “This,” I say. “You. More of it.”
Her breath catches just a little, not that she lets it show for long. “That simple?”
“Does it need to be complicated?”
“No,” she whispers. “Just... wasn’t sure if you’d still want this when things got quiet.”
I lean in, press my forehead to hers. “Quiet doesn’t scare me. Losing you does.”
She closes her eyes, and for a while we just sit there, the two of us wrapped in silence, in the echo of everything we fought to keep.
I don’t need anything else. Just this moment. Just her.