Chapter 31
LIORA
Isit at the kitchen table long after the lights in the rest of the apartment have gone dim.
The only glow is the soft loop of the holo-monitor perched beside me, its screen casting pale cyan reflections across my face.
I’m supposed to be reviewing tomorrow’s scene—dialogue, blocking, wardrobe—but I can’t.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, eyes burning red from too many hours under studio fluorescents, stomach knotting with something stronger than exhaustion.
Pepper’s asleep in the other room. The faint hum of her image-inducer pulses like a heartbeat. I close my eyes and taste bitterness—coffee I didn’t finish, jam still on my lips from the snack she demanded earlier, guilt inescapable.
Guilt. It’s been eating me alive for days.
Every time Gyon picks up Pepper at craft services, her legs dangling over one arm, his smile low and content, the lie tears me.
Every time she laughs at his joke—her laugh, full and sharp like mine when I try to joke—it scorches like acid.
Because she’s his. I know it. He knows it. But I lied.
I type. Then delete.
“Gyon—I need to tell you…”
Then delete.
“Pepper, you are what unites us…”
Delete.
“I’m sorry I hid you.”
Delete.
A dozen confessions I wrote and erased. Each one heavier than the last. Because the truth isn’t protecting Pepper. It’s protecting me. Protecting myself from his betrayal. Protecting the idea of him without the risk of losing him again.
I lean back. The chair creaks. The city muffled outside the window—traffic, hovercars, distant music. The smell of jam on my fingers, the hum of the inducer, the taste of cold coffee. All of it converges.
I stand and walk into the living room where Pepper’s toy ship sits half-built, blocks strewn across the carpet.
I pick up a piece, run my thumb over the scratches, the plastic worn smooth.
I remember when I first tucked her in after the crash, when I pressed the inducer to her temple, promising her safety and hiding, hiding always.
A knock on the door startles me. I freeze. Then I walk across the room and open it. It’s my editor—Zara—two hours late, with a thick file in her hand.
“Liora,” she says softly. She steps in. “We need to talk.”
I close the door carefully. “What now?” I ask, tone hollow.
She sets the file on the couch. “The IHC… they’re asking questions.”
I stiffen. My stomach drops. I walk over. The cold plastic of the holo-tablet she carries presses under my fingertips. “Which department?”
“The citizenship verification. Alien-occupied sectors. The Reaper connection. This isn’t about your film—they came across that old incident.” She glances at the living room, at the toy ship. “They know you had a guest. A non-human male in the apartment.”
My chest seizes. I swallow hard. “How did they—”
“Doesn’t matter. They want you to answer.” Her voice is gentle but firm.
I shut my eyes. “I’ll handle it.”
Zara nods. “I believe you will. But you need to brace yourself.”
I nod, but my legs feel weak. Guilt presses my throat tight. Because now the lie is no longer safe. It is exposure.
Zara stands. “I’ll let you deal with it. Call me if you need help.”
She leaves.
I close the door, slide down the wall. I lean my head against it. I taste metal in my mouth.
I think of Gyon. Of Pepper. Of everything I held together with whisper-threads and fear.
I rise. I go into Pepper’s room. I sit on the floor and pull her into my lap. Her small arms wrap around me. I can smell her hair—strawberry jam and childhood. I kiss the top of her head.
“You’re safe,” I whisper. “Mommy will protect you.”
She murmurs and drifts back to sleep. I sit there, feeling the weight of the lie so much that every breath is a labor.
I stand, turn off the light, leave the door cracked so moonlight drips in. I walk back to the kitchen. I pick up the coffee cup—dry now, ring of lipstick still visible. I set it in the sink. The taste of cold and regret clings.
The screen in front of me flickers. Tomorrow’s scene is ready: “Reunion in the tunnels.” My character will run into her lover, the Reaper. The lights will flash. The rubble will fall again. The camera will roll.
I imagine Gyon’s face in the scene. His real face. The moment he kisses me. Not the actor. Not the horns. The him. I shiver.
I open the screen and begin typing again:
“Scene 47: ADRSTRICT—Re-orientation.”
But my head aches. The cursor blinks. Words fail me.
I close the laptop.
I walk to the window and lean my forehead against the glass. The city’s lights wash against the pane. I taste cool air. I feel the vibrations of traffic. I hear a distant siren, a hum of hover lanes, the faint chant of late-night laughter.
And I consider: I’m protecting Pepper. Yes. But I’m protecting more than that. Myself. I’m protecting my image. My hope. The fragile bubble I built with this contract, with this child, with the man I refused to let in.
I take a bracing breath. I feel the wind press against the glass. I shut my eyes.
I tell myself: Tomorrow I will tell him. Tomorrow I will open my mouth and say his name. Say her name. Say his child’s name. Tell the truth.
But I don’t. I blink once. Twice. And I turn away.
Because fear is heavy. Fear steals air. Fear builds walls.
And I don’t want to lose him. Not again.
In spite of the odds, Gyon is proving me wrong.
Proving he’s not a detriment to Pepper, but a boon.
Pepper is alive in a way I haven’t dared allow myself to be: vibrant, joyful, unstoppable.
Her laughter cuts across the set today like a rifle shot.
She slides down the stair-prop at lunch, sneakers squeaking, hair flopping, and she calls out to Gyon, “Come on, Funny Man with Sharp Teeth!” He flashes her a grin—it’s half predator, half proud dad—and she beams like she owns half the world.
I watch. From the craft services tent, coffee cup in hand, drip of cream still unmixed.
The scent: hot caf fumes, spilled sugar, the faint acrid tang of smoke from last night’s shoot.
The monitor screen in front of me is paused on my worst take: my face frozen in fear, the fake reactor flickering.
I glance down at Pepper racing away, the inducer hum faint beneath her ear.
The inducer holds. Today. The green light glows steady.
But I know—just like every day—I know it’s only a matter of time before it falters in public.
A camera, a paparazzi drone, a crow’s eye view from above.
Someone will see something. Someone will decode the flicker.
Someone will ask: Why is her child’s eye row flashing silver?
Who is this man watching her? Why is there a Reaper in her life?
And then the press explosion. The Interplanetary Human Council (IHC) investigation.
The studio backlash. Gyon dragged back to wherever the hell he came from.
Pepper ripped from my arms. That little girl clutching her jam pouch is banking on me protecting this secret.
I made the contract. I accepted the clause.
I promised safety. But right now I feel like I’m teetering on the ledge of a volcano and the tremors are starting.
I walk to the trailer parking area after lunch.
The lot smells of warmed concrete and engine oil.
Pepper rides on Gyon’s shoulders, helmeted stunt-gear in hand, laughing at something the stunt-kit guy said.
Gyon’s grip around her is easy, protective.
He tilts his head and she giggles, bites her lip. A perfect tableau.
I turn away, swallowing. I hear someone call my name—assistant wardrobe looking for an adjustment—but I don’t answer.
I walk back inside, to a quiet corner, and pull my phone out.
I scroll through the contract files. Disclosure avoidance clause.
Image indemnity. Alien heritage liability.
My fingers hover over the “Penalties” section: deportation, child removal, scandal. I swallow.
“Mommy?” The voice. I jump. Pepper’s standing at the trailer door. Jam smudge on her cheek. “You gonna film again?”
I blink. “Yeah, baby. In ten minutes.”
She skips off. I hold her gaze for a second. Then I breathe out. The studio lot fades behind me. The engine hum, the light rigs, the scripts—they all grind into the background. It’s just me and the secret.
Back inside, Gyon is reading the revised script—his contract-copy. His armor jacket rests on the chair. He doesn’t see me though I know he senses me. We don’t speak. I shouldn’t speak. Because the words—Pepper is yours—are still locked in my throat.
I step in. I clear my throat. “Gyon—I need the scene with Pepper tomorrow. She nails it.”
He looks up. “Okay.”
Short. Efficient. But his eyes flick to mine. Something in them probing. Something unknown. My heart leaps. I nod and turn away.
When filming resumes, the chaos wraps me in its cloak: lights blaze, props clang, cables run like snakes.
The smell of smoke machines, the taste of dust in my mouth.
I run through a take where we escape the collapsing Maze—again.
I feel the old fall inside me. I fall. I hit the mat.
I taste grit. I gasp. But then I see Pepper in the monitor, cheering.
I rise. I block. I move through the scene, give her the reaction. Fear. Relief. Union.
After the take, Gyon stands beside me. He doesn’t speak. But his presence is heavy. He whispers, “You did good.” The words quiet, but they echo in the empty studio. My body stills. The fabric of my costume kisses my skin raw where it rubs. I close my eyes.
The lunch bell rings. I can’t breathe.
That night, I lie awake in the apartment—sterile overhead light, sound of the hovercar engine two apartments down humming through the thin walls.
Pepper sleeps. I watch her chest move. The inducer hums. I sit at the edge of the bed.
The duvet smells of detergent, screens soft-glow from the set-footage footage I should be editing for tomorrow.
I type again. “Pepper, you are what holds me…” Delete. “Gyon, you are the anchor I refused…” Delete. My fingers ache. The cursor blinks like a heartbeat skipped.
I close the laptop. I lean forward and press my forehead to my knees. The rug is scratchy against my cheek. I smell jam again—her hair. I taste leftover caf cream on my lips.
I whisper to myself: “Tell him tomorrow. I will.”
But I don’t.
Because if I tell him—everything changes.
And if I don’t—everything already changed.
I wake early next morning, too early. The city hum is softer in dawn light, but it still pulses. The lot is buzzing by 6 a.m. for early-call scenes. The freezer café smells of steam and stale doughnuts. I walk in, grab a black coffee. I stir it. The sugar granules crunch in my teeth.
I see Gyon across the room. He sits alone at a table. Armor jacket on his chair, script open. He reads. He looks up when the barista sets my coffee down. We lock eyes for a second. I nod. He nods back—an acknowledgement of shared morning, nothing more.
I carry the coffee to the monitor bank and glance at the feed. Pepper is running around the set again, giggling. She stops by the monitor and waves at me. I wave back. She turns and runs into Gyon’s arms. She wraps around him like a vine.
My chest contracts. I taste the steel tang of panic.
Gyon looks up at the monitor, sees me watching. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t break the embrace with Pepper. Instead he holds her higher, brushes her hair back. She leans into his neck. His fingers rest at the nape of her jacket.
I feel a shift. Something moving inside me. Guilt isn’t a static weight—it’s fluid, crawling, burning.
The director yells: “Ready, cameras rolling!”
I step into the light. The scene begins. I act. I emote. I lie. But this time, it feels like reality. Gyon moves in beside me during the scene—not scripted—but allowed. The prop set shakes, lights flicker, dust falls. My character reacts. Gyon’s Reaper character shields me for real.
I feel the glint of his armor near my ear. I hear his breath steady. I smell the fake smoke and his real scent blended—ozone and leather. I feel the armour press against my back. I turn. His eyes—this time not through a visor—are on me.
It ends. The director yells “Cut!” The crew cheers. Gyon steps back. I don’t move. I feel him behind me. My heart pounds. The taste of success is sour.
I walk off stage before Gyon can speak. I avoid saying goodbye. I ride the hover-bus back with Pepper. She’s curled in my arms, half-asleep, snacks in hand. The low hum lulls her. I wrap a blanket around her shoulders.
“Mommy,” she murmurs. “Am I safe now?”
My throat closes. I kiss her temple. “Yes, baby. You always are.”
She yawns, head lolling. I carry her to the car, engine whine low. I breathe in the cold night air as we drive home—metal hiss, faint song from a hover-music station that leaks into the car.
When we get home, I carry her inside. I set her on the couch. She props up a pillow and murmurs, “I like Funny Man with Sharp Teeth.”
I force a grin. “He’s just Gyon.”
She nods and falls asleep.
I stand in the half-lit living room. The coffee cup is empty. The contract is on the table. The looming IHC inquiry is waiting. The secret is sharper than ever.
I close my eyes and whisper to myself: “Tomorrow I’ll tell him.”
But I don’t.
Again I wait. And I hate myself for it.