Chapter 18
ROXY
The ramp seals behind us with a hydraulic sigh that sounds too much like exhaustion.
The dock noise cuts off mid-clamor, replaced by the muted hum of internal systems cycling through pressurization checks.
My ears ring in the sudden quiet. I didn’t realize how loud the asteroid hub was until it’s gone—the overlapping shouts, the metallic clatter of stolen cargo, the electric snap of cheap plasma chargers being tested in open air.
Now it’s just the steady thrum of Vrok’s ship and the smell of recycled air carrying the faint tang of coolant and ozone.
He doesn’t slow down once we’re inside.
His boots hit the deck in heavy, measured strides, shoulders set too tight beneath the dark fabric of his jacket. There’s a particular way he moves when he’s wound up—controlled, but barely. Like something feral has been leashed and resents it.
I watch him for three seconds.
Four.
Five.
And then I can’t swallow it anymore.
“What was that back there?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
He keeps walking.
“Vrok.”
Still nothing.
I lengthen my stride and move ahead of him, forcing him to either stop or run me down. He stops. His gaze drops to me slowly, not surprised, not angry—just guarded.
“What was what?” he asks.
The casual tone makes my stomach flare hot.
“You knew they were going to confront you,” I say. “You felt it building. I saw it in your posture before they even stepped out. And you didn’t defuse it. You leaned into it.”
His brow ridge lowers a fraction. “I didn’t escalate.”
“You absolutely did.”
His jaw flexes.
“You didn’t try to calm it. You didn’t redirect. You didn’t pay the stupid toll and move on. You waited for them to make the first move so you could justify finishing it.”
The words hang between us like a blade.
His voice drops. “That’s called survival.”
“That’s called bait.”
The corridor suddenly feels too narrow. Too close. The ship hum deepens as if it senses tension and wants nothing to do with it.
He steps toward me, and I feel the heat radiating off him before he even speaks.
“You think this is optional?” he asks. “You think there’s a version of this life where people with guns just let you walk away because you asked nicely?”
“I think there’s a version where you don’t make it worse on purpose.”
His eyes flash.
“I didn’t make it worse,” he snaps. “You did.”
That hits harder than I expect.
I inhale slowly, forcing my spine straight. “You were ready for blood. I saw it.”
“You saw readiness.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer so he can’t misinterpret me. “I saw anticipation.”
Silence stretches, thick and electric.
His breathing deepens, not ragged, not unstable, just controlled in a way that makes it worse. His control always makes it worse.
“You want the truth?” he asks finally.
“Yes.”
His gaze drifts past me, unfocusing slightly, like he’s looking through the corridor walls at something far older.
“Horus IV,” he says.
The name drops into the air with weight.
I don’t interrupt.
“It was supposed to be routine,” he continues. “A mining outpost flagged for insurgent takeover. Hostages reported. Light resistance expected. We ran the numbers. We trusted the intel.”
His hands curl at his sides.
“There were eighteen of us. Veterans. All of us had seen hell already.”
The lighting flickers faintly, and for a moment his face looks carved from something harder than bone.
“They let us land,” he says. “No resistance at first. That should’ve been the warning.”
I can almost see it unfolding behind his eyes.
“The moment we breached the main corridor, the walls opened up. Hidden compartments. Crossfire from elevated positions. They’d mapped our likely path. We walked into a kill box.”
His voice doesn’t break.
That makes it worse.
“I lost four in the first thirty seconds.”
The ship hum fades into the background of his words.
“Eight more within five minutes. Two tried to flank. They were already boxed in. One bled out while I dragged him by the vest because his legs were gone.”
My throat tightens.
He keeps going.
“We pulled back. Tried to regroup. That’s when the second wave hit.”
His jaw tightens.
“They weren’t insurgents. They were ex-military with upgraded augments and a grudge. They wanted us to suffer.”
His gaze returns to me now, not fiery, not aggressive—just stripped bare.
“I found the remaining hostages in a blast shelter under the lower grid. Twelve civilians. Two of my team still alive and pinned down.”
His voice lowers.
“I had enough time to extract one group.”
The silence feels heavy enough to bruise.
“Not both.”
My chest constricts.
“I chose the civilians,” he says. “Because that’s what we’re supposed to do.”
I nod faintly.
“And while I was dragging them to evac,” he continues, “I could hear my team over comms.”
The muscles in his throat flex.
“They knew.”
I swallow. “Knew what?”
“That I wasn’t coming back.”
The words land softly. Devastatingly.
“They held position anyway,” he says. “Bought me time. Covered the exit.”
His hands tremble once before he stills them.
“They were still alive when I lifted off.”
My stomach turns.
“And you survived,” I say quietly.
He lets out a hollow sound that almost resembles laughter.
“Survived,” he repeats. “Yeah.”
I step closer.
“You saved twelve civilians.”
“And left six of mine.”
“You couldn’t—”
“I could’ve tried.”
His eyes flare now.
“I could’ve gambled the civilians and doubled back. I could’ve risked it.”
“And maybe lost everyone,” I counter.
“And maybe not.”
The weight of his guilt fills the corridor.
“They called me a hero,” he says. “They handed me commendations. They told me I did the right thing.”
He looks at me like he wants me to argue.
“I don’t believe them.”
“Why?”
“Because I hear their voices when I sleep.”
The confession hangs there.
“I survived,” he says, quieter now. “And every job since has felt like interest on a debt I shouldn’t have been allowed to keep.”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“You think survival was a mistake,” I say slowly.
“I think it was uneven.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“To them, it is.”
I shake my head.
“You’ve saved people since,” I say. “You’ve stopped worse things. I’ve seen it already.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You pulled civilians out on Horus IV,” I continue. “You didn’t abandon everyone. You made a choice that protected the most lives.”
“And it cost others.”
“That’s war.”
“That’s cowardice.”
“That’s triage.”
His eyes narrow.
“You think that absolves it?”
“No,” I say. “I think it contextualizes it.”
He studies me like I’ve said something dangerous.
“You escalate because you think if you’re always the biggest threat, you’ll never be cornered like that again,” I add. “You think if you control the violence, it won’t control you.”
The silence stretches.
He doesn’t deny it.
“And you’re wrong,” I say gently. “Because you’re still reliving it.”
He exhales slowly.
The tension in his shoulders finally fractures—not violently, not dramatically, but enough.
Without another word, he turns to the main console.
He moves with mechanical precision, shutting down secondary systems, dimming lights, cycling internal security.
The ship’s hum lowers. The ambient glow softens.
He doesn’t look at me while he does it.
When he finishes, he lowers himself into the pilot’s chair and just sits there.
Hands resting on his thighs. Eyes fixed on nothing.
I step closer, but I don’t touch him.
For once, there’s nothing sharp in the air between us.
Just quiet.
And the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his breathing.
He doesn’t argue.
He doesn’t defend himself.
He doesn’t justify it further.
He just sits there.
Shaken.
And I realize that for all the violence he prepares for, it’s the memory that still wins.