Chapter 9
VROK
She’s quiet—too quiet.
For someone with a rep like hers, I expect more…
presence. Not noise. Not bravado. Gravity.
Something that fills space just by standing in it.
The kind of quiet that shifts a room’s temperature.
But she’s not giving me that. Not fear. Not arrogance.
Just a flatline of cool, like she’s conserving energy for a fight she already decided won’t be worth the sweat.
The ship hums around us, steady in the silence between bursts of navigation updates and engine thrum. Hyperspace flattens the stars outside the viewport into long white scars, the kind that remind you nothing’s permanent—especially not people.
I glance sideways. She hasn’t moved since buckling in. Hands still, spine loose, shoulders set like she’s waiting on a bus, not screaming across the galaxy toward a blood-soaked warzone.
“You ever hit Kaerva?” I ask, voice low, more vibration than volume.
She blinks. Once. “Mm-hm.”
Not a yes. Not a no.
Just a placeholder that tells me nothing.
Her body’s too loose. Like she’s a passenger in every sense. But that doesn’t track. If she’s the Butcher—and I’ve already decided she is—she should be more alert. More calculating. Not this... casually unreadable.
“You know what we’re flying into,” I say.
She lifts her chin, jaw setting. “I like a challenge.”
I snort. “This isn’t a challenge. It’s a statement.”
That finally lands. She tilts her head a notch, like I’ve just said something worth parsing. “What kind of statement?”
I thumb the nav console, pulling up a slow-spin wireframe of Kaerva. “Controlled territory. Curated threats. Large Marj doesn’t need armies. She builds myths. Kills them, too.”
Her eyebrows arch slightly, but her posture stays the same.
I go on. “She picks her targets. Picks how they die. And she makes sure the whole sector sees it. She doesn’t just destroy you—she turns you into a cautionary tale.”
Roxy leans back, arms folded, eyes lazy. “So she’s dramatic.”
I narrow my eyes. “She slaughtered an ex-ghost unit and strung their bones from a signal tower for six days. Didn’t blink when the U.P. threatened sanctions. Called it ‘decorative deterrence.’”
Roxy lets out a low whistle. “Ballsy.”
“She carved a merc’s confirmed kill count into his chest. With a welding iron.”
“Efficient and informative.”
There’s a flicker in my jaw. Not quite a smile. But close. She’s not rattled. Not even phased. Either she’s built from the same broken metal I am—or she’s faking it so well I want to learn how.
“You think that’s funny?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I think anyone who makes art out of violence is compensating.”
I raise a brow. “For what?”
“Tiny teeth. Small brain. Probably bad shoes.”
It hits harder than it should. Not the insult—Marj isn’t mine to defend—but the ease of it. Like she’s done this before. Not killed tyrants. But danced through danger with jokes instead of shields.
I tap the console again. The map zooms to the northern sector—Kaerva’s spine. Towers jut up like broken fingers, all silver and surveillance, stitched together with walls and weapon nests.
“That’s her stronghold. Used to be a trade hub. Now it’s a fortress with a marketing department.”
Roxy leans in, just enough that the glow from the screen warms the sharp lines of her face. “She run a podcast too? ‘Murder and Metrics’?”
“Only if the guests die on-air.”
She chuckles. “Edgy.”
“She’s got a system. Take out anyone with a legend. Anyone who gives people hope. Turns their fall into a spectacle.”
“Break the legend, break the movement,” Roxy echoes, nodding. “Classic.”
It sounds right. But something’s off. The way she says it—it’s too smooth. Like she read it on a screen, not lived it. Like she’s quoting a show that got cancelled mid-season.
“You really think this is classic?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Happens all the time.”
“Where?”
She hesitates. Just a breath too long. Then: “Places.”
I blink. “Places.”
“Distant ones.”
That lands wrong.
Not danger-wrong. But sideways. Tilted. Like a puzzle piece that fits only if you force it.
Still, she’s calm. Present. And here. That counts for more than a lot.
“Ever worked with a spotter?” I ask, casual.
“Always.”
“You move heavy or precise?”
She meets my eyes, unfazed. “Both.”
I glance at her hands. Slim, clean. No grip callouses. No burn scars or tech tattoos. Too pristine for someone who’s dragged lives out of crosshairs. She catches me looking and flexes—like she’s trying to convince me, or herself.
I shift, leaning back in my chair, but I don’t let the thought go.
She’s lying. Not badly. Not obviously. But enough.
Still, there’s no fear in it. No flinching. Just… adaptation. Like she’s adjusting to a role she didn’t ask for but refuses to fail.
She crosses one leg over the other, casual as a cat. “So what’s your angle, Vrok?”
“What do you mean?”
“This. You. Me. You don’t strike me as the team-up type.”
I shrug. “Marj doesn’t fall to solo runs. She’s survived four. All better killers than me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says, dry. “You’ve got great cheekbones.”
My mouth twitches. “I need someone who can counter her narrative. Someone with presence. Mystery. Fear.”
“And you think that’s me.”
“I think the Butcher hasn’t been seen in years. I think her showing up now would rattle Marj’s grip.”
She leans forward, elbows on knees, grin sharp. “And what if I’m not the Butcher?”
I meet her stare, level and unmoved. “Then I guess we’re both dead.”
That surprises her.
She laughs—short, real, surprised. “That’s your plan?”
“It’s honest.”
She watches me, eyes darker now. More focused. Like she’s re-evaluating the whole room, the whole ship, the whole mess we’re in.
Finally, she nods. “I like honest.”
I say nothing. Because if I open my mouth now, it’ll be more than honesty that spills out.
Instead, I watch her as she turns toward the window, her body lit in soft pulses by the instrument panel glow. She’s quiet again, but not like before. This time there’s weight behind it. Thought. Strategy.
She’s hiding something.
But she’s still here.
And in this galaxy, showing up counts for more than anyone likes to admit.
I tap a final sequence into the console, setting course markers and threat alerts. But my attention keeps sliding back to her. The shape of her shoulders. The stillness in her spine. The way she breathes through tension without letting it show.
Whatever she is—Butcher, con, or something else entirely—I’ve already committed.
She’s in.
Which means she’s under my protection.