Chapter 15
ALAINA
“Are you seriously gonna wear that?” I ask, biting back a laugh as Troka lumbers out of his apartment in what can only be described as a half-zipped, half-wrinkled company polo two sizes too small.
“It’s the uniform,” he growls.
“It’s a cry for help.” I circle him, eyeing the way the fabric stretches across his chest like it’s holding on for dear life. “You look like a bouncer at a children’s party.”
He grunts. “They didn’t have triple-XL.”
“You’re a seven-foot-tall space lizard, Troka. Just say no to polos.”
He snorts and shoves his keycard in his back pocket. “You coming or what?”
“You bet your overbuilt ass I am,” I say, grabbing my coat and sliding Caelix into the baby harness on my chest. “I need to see this disaster firsthand.”
The used hovercar lot smells like scorched plastisteel and stale cafeteria food. Sun beats down on rows of half-busted vehicles with peeling decals that scream things like “GRAVITY GRIP GUARANTEED!” and “SPACE-READY...SORTA!”
Troka stomps across the asphalt like he’s back on patrol. He barely makes it two feet before a family of three wanders over to check out a hovertruck with a rusted undercarriage.
“Need help?” he booms.
The mom jumps a little. “Uh... maybe?”
He nods. “This one? Trash. Absolute junk. But,” he says, crouching beside the wheel well, “the engine’s got heart. If you treat her right, she’ll get you from A to B—probably even C.”
The dad laughs. “You always this honest?”
“No. Usually I lie in combat situations.”
The mom laughs, the kid giggles, and somehow—some damn how—they end up test-driving the thing ten minutes later.
I blink. “Did he just... sell that hoverjunk?”
“Looks like it,” mutters the dealership manager beside me, sipping his stim-juice. “He’s an idiot. But he’s our idiot.”
For the next hour, I watch Troka work the lot like it’s a battleground. Only instead of plasma cannons, it’s customers, and instead of grenades, it’s sarcasm.
“This one’ll rattle your fillings out. Still want it?”
“That model’s a deathtrap unless you like living dangerously.”
“Fast? Sure. If you’re being chased by sloths.”
And somehow? Every single one of them loves it. The brutal honesty. The dry humor. Even the kids—one tiny boy clambers up Troka’s leg like it’s a jungle gym and the big brute just... lets him. Rumbles a laugh that feels like a heartbeat under my skin.
Caelix watches wide-eyed, perched on my chest, and then he does the thing.
The thing that kills me.
He reaches one chubby hand toward Troka and says, “Bah.”
Troka turns. Sees him. That slow smile of his unfurls like thunderclouds cracking apart.
“Hey, little starclinger,” he rumbles, walking over and ruffling Caelix’s hair. “You causing trouble already?”
Caelix coos and pats his chest.
My heart flinches. Hard.
Back home, I can’t stop fidgeting.
Dinner’s eaten. Dishes are done. Caelix is in bed. Troka's across from me on my couch, knees nearly knocking over the coffee table, nursing a bottle of fizzwater like it’s actual booze.
“You did good today,” I say.
He shrugs. “Didn’t punch anyone.”
“Low bar, buddy. But yes. You did good.” I pull my knees up under me. “You were... kinda amazing.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Feels like a setup.”
I roll my eyes. “Not everything’s an ambush.”
He glances at me, golden eyes catching the lamplight. “You’d make a damn good sniper.”
“Flattery?” I grin. “From you?”
“Mark the calendar.”
A beat passes. I exhale through my nose.
“You’re good with him,” I whisper. “With Caelix.”
He stiffens just slightly. “He’s a good kid.”
“He’s smart. Sharp. Too observant for his own good.”
Troka nods. “Wonder where he gets it.”
I open my mouth.
A wail splits the night. Caelix.
I shoot to my feet. “I got him,” I say, too fast, already hurrying to the bedroom.
He cries for a few minutes—restless, not panicked. I soothe him with a hum and a touch to his cheek, then tuck him in again. By the time I get back to the living room, Troka’s standing.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I lie.
He looks at me like he knows it’s bullshit.
But he doesn’t push.
Instead, he nods. “I should go.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I do.”
My chest twists. “Troka—”
He doesn’t turn around.
“See you tomorrow,” he says softly, and leaves.
When the door hisses shut, I sink onto the couch like my bones liquified.