Chapter 7
VROK
Ikeep my body between her and the rest of the club as we move, scanning the crowd like they’re all waiting for a chance. Because some of them might be.
Tickled Pink doesn’t empty out so much as pulse around us—music still pounding like it’s trying to shake memories loose, lights still strobing hard enough to blur faces. I see every potential weapon, every potential threat, every glance that lingers too long.
She doesn’t.
That’s the first thing that jars me.
Her head’s high but she’s not watching her corners.
No check over the shoulder. No eyes on exits.
Her posture isn’t wired for survival—more like resignation, like she’s already decided what happens next and isn’t interested in dodging fate.
It doesn’t track. Not with the kind of history that earns a title like hers.
Unless this is part of the performance.
We push out the side door, and the night air hits hard. Thinner, cooler, sharp with ozone and the metallic tang of nearby shuttles baking down their cores. She flinches, just slightly, like she didn’t expect the world to be waiting.
I don’t speak. She doesn’t either. Our steps are loud on the asphalt.
I guide her through the back alleys—narrow service routes that keep us out of view and out of reach.
I watch every shadow, every shape that doesn’t move right.
I clock three drunks, two workers, one teen with a data wand who decides real fast that we’re not worth scanning.
My ship’s exactly where I left it—nose pointed toward the stars like it’s daring me to do something reckless.
She hesitates as we approach. I don’t slow down.
The ramp opens under my code, hissing like a secret unspooled, and she follows me up without a word.
Inside, she stops in the entry corridor, eyes sweeping the space like she’s trying to figure out what part of this is supposed to feel familiar. She’s not tense. Not hunting routes or escape paths. Just... confused. Maybe cautious.
“Cockpit’s this way,” I say over my shoulder.
She steps up beside me. “Is that where we’re going?”
I pause mid-stride, turn just enough to see her face. Raised brow ridge. “Where else would we go?”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. A half-shrug, noncommittal. Like maybe she expected quarters or a lounge or something less... mission-shaped.
Still doesn’t make sense.
Unless she’s testing me.
I move on without answering further. Let her sit with it.
The cockpit is all edges and dim glow, consoles humming low like they’re waiting for purpose. I settle into the pilot seat, and she hovers near the threshold, fingers grazing the wall like she’s anchoring herself.
Still no questions.
Still no acknowledgment of why she’s here or what happens next.
It has to be a test.
I key in launch protocols. Thrusters breathe awake beneath us. My hands fly across the console, callouses recognizing every switch like old friends. No stutter. No hesitation.
She doesn’t sit.
She doesn’t ask.
I don’t offer.
This is the work.
If she’s the Butcher—and I’m betting she is—then she knows what this is. Knows the job. Knows the stakes.
And if she doesn’t?
Then someone’s running the longest con I’ve ever seen.
The ship lifts clean off the pad, Novaria’s nightscape falling away beneath us like discarded skin. I don’t speak as the nav systems sync. Just watch her from the corner of my eye, measuring her posture, her silence, the way her fingers twitch once and go still again.
She doesn’t even flinch when the jump window opens.
Stars stretch.
Time thins.
Hyperspace swallows us.
We’re in it now.
No turning back.