Chapter 37 Vrok
VROK
Iknow a trap when I see one.
Even dressed up in myth and shadow, even if it doesn’t come with teeth and blood and a kill box on the other end—I still recognize the shape of it.
What Roxy just found?
It’s the most dangerous battlefield we’ve been on yet.
And it’s not even made of steel or fire.
It’s made of belief.
I stand behind her as she scrolls through the last few files, her face washed in blue from the screen’s projection. She’s still too quiet. Shoulders tight. Jaw working like she’s chewing on something she doesn’t want to swallow.
The console flickers. Another looped surveillance edit plays—some jackass spliced her face onto a low-light assassination clip from Sector Juno.
The kill was real, but the face doesn’t belong.
Roxy’s name gets whispered with reverence and fear in equal measure, voiceovers twisted to amplify the threat.
The Butcher, bigger than life.
More like un-life. A ghost in the data streams.
"She’s done it," I say, breaking the silence.
Roxy doesn’t answer. But I see the twitch in her jaw. She’s waiting for the punch that’ll land next.
“She didn’t just step off the stage,” I continue. “Marj rewrote the rules of engagement. The battlefield’s digital now. Reputation warfare. Psychological ops. And the Butcher? She’s the nuke.”
Roxy exhales through her nose, tired and angry and sharp as ever. “She didn’t just walk away from Kaerva. She burned the map behind her.”
"Because legends don’t bleed," I say. “But they can burn.”
She turns, finally, chair creaking. “What’s your angle?”
“I know what this becomes if we don’t control it,” I say. “Every coward with a blade and a whisper claiming your name. Every tyrant justifying their cruelty by saying you did it first. You’ll lose the shape of yourself under the weight of this thing.”
“I know that,” she snaps, pushing back from the console. “You think I didn’t see it the second those rumors hit border space?”
I move in front of her, cutting off her retreat. Not touching. Just there.
“And if we let it go unchecked?”
She squares her shoulders. “What? You gonna suggest I fake my death? Go underground? Change my name and let the real world devour itself on rumors?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She waits. Doesn’t trust my silence. Never has.
“I’ll take it,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Take what?”
“The legend. I’ll sever public ties with you. Shift the image. Let them think the Butcher was me all along. Vakutan war machine. Berserker code. Easy pivot. You disappear clean.”
“No,” she says immediately.
“You don’t have to answer—”
“I am answering,” she cuts in, voice razor-sharp. “No. I am not shrinking myself just to feel safe again. I’ve done that. You’ve seen it.”
I clench my fists. “You’d be free—”
“I don’t want free. I want truth. Control. Hell, I’ll take chaos as long as it’s mine.”
The silence after that crackles.
Roxy steps forward and jabs a finger against my chest. “Don’t you dare try and martyr yourself again.”
I stare down at her. “This isn’t martyrdom.”
She barks a laugh, bitter. “Everything with you walks the line. Sacrifice dressed up as strategy.”
I breathe. Slow.
Then say, “You’re right.”
That throws her.
I continue, quieter now. “It was instinct. First thought: protect you, take the fall, disappear into the myth before it eats you alive. But that’s not partnership. That’s a fallback protocol. I don’t want to default to dying for you, Roxy.”
She doesn’t speak.
“I want to live with you. Even in this.”
The shift in her is slow. But real. The tension eases just enough for breath.
She moves past me and drops into the pilot’s chair, dragging her hands down her face.
“This thing,” she mutters. “It’s not even about us anymore. It’s about what people need us to be. The Butcher became a placeholder. A permission slip. An excuse.”
I sit beside her.
“We don’t erase it,” I say. “We rewrite it.”
She looks over. Eyes searching mine for the angle.
I give her the truth.
“Marj set fire to the myth on her way out. Fine. Let’s walk back through the smoke and plant our own damn flag.”
“You want to use it?”
“I want to own it.”
She leans back in the chair, lips pursed. “We’re not gods, Vrok. We can’t control what people believe.”
“No. But we can steer it.”
She turns the idea over, slow and reluctant. “You think people will follow a version of the Butcher that doesn’t kill first and ask questions never?”
“We don’t give them a choice,” I say. “We make it clear: the Butcher’s eyes are open. And she's choosing what comes next.”
“And what if I don’t want to be her?”
“Then she becomes something else. Someone else. But on your terms.”
A long pause.
Then: “And you?”
“I stand beside you. Publicly. Strategically. We make them see us as one front. Not a legend and her shadow, but two halves of a plan.”
Roxy studies me for a long moment.
Then says, softer, “You’re not afraid anymore.”
“I am,” I say. “But I’m not letting fear steer the ship.”
That gets a smile out of her. Barely. But it’s real.
She nods once. “Then let’s do it.”