Chapter 18
brON
There are moments in life when a suspicion becomes too large to ignore, the kind of thought that settles into the back of your skull and refuses to move out no matter how many logical arguments you throw at it.
For the last two days I have been trying—honestly trying—to behave like a rational adult about the possibility forming in my mind, but the trouble with rationality is that it tends to collapse the moment reality keeps feeding it new evidence.
Every time I close my eyes I see that kid again: the quiet way he studies people, the burnished red scales that catch the light along his cheekbones, the particular shade of gold in his eyes that my grandmother once described as “Vakutan sunlight.” The arithmetic of the timeline still runs constantly in the background of my thoughts, ticking along like a clock that has decided it will eventually drag the truth into the open whether anyone is ready for it or not.
Which is exactly why I find myself standing near the far wall of the family visitation commons again, pretending to study a decorative fountain while my attention remains fixed on the courtyard beyond the glass.
The family wing always smells different from the rest of the compound.
There’s less of the harsh metallic tang of arena machinery and more of the soft domestic scents people associate with ordinary life—powdered milk, fabric softener, fresh fruit packs, the faint sweetness of bubble solution drifting from a toy dispenser near the play area.
The contrast is so stark it almost feels unreal, like someone carved a pocket of normalcy out of the middle of a gladiator arena.
Children move through the courtyard in uneven bursts of energy.
Some are toddling after floating toy drones while others are building elaborate block towers destined to collapse within seconds.
A caretaker sits nearby reading from a bright picture book while two toddlers attempt to chew on the corners of the pages.
And in the middle of all that small, chaotic life is Jesse.
He stands near a low climbing structure with his hands braced against the metal railing, examining a small mechanical toy with the intense concentration of a scientist evaluating a failed experiment.
From where I’m standing I can see the faint shimmer of red scales along the back of his neck and the smooth curve of his jawline as he tilts his head slightly.
The afternoon light from the courtyard canopy glints off those scales in a way that makes them look almost copper-colored.
My stomach tightens again.
The resemblance isn’t subtle.
Not to someone who grew up around a family full of Vakutans.
The shape of the cheekbones alone is enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Yeah,” I murmur quietly to myself. “That’s not suspicious at all.”
I shift slightly against the wall and fold my arms loosely across my chest, trying to look like a bored contestant killing time during a break period instead of a man staring at a toddler like he might contain the answer to a question that could change the rest of my life.
Jesse drops the toy onto the ground and crouches to inspect it more closely. The movement is quick and deliberate, the kind of compact balance Vakutan children develop early thanks to their heavier bone density. My youngest cousin used to move exactly like that when we were kids.
The memory hits me so suddenly I nearly laugh out loud.
“Oh, this is getting ridiculous,” I whisper.
The child glances toward the courtyard entrance then, as if sensing someone watching him. His golden eyes sweep across the room and land on me.
For a moment we just look at each other.
There’s something unnervingly steady about the way he holds my gaze. Most children glance away quickly when they notice a stranger staring at them. Jesse doesn’t. He studies me with quiet curiosity, tilting his head slightly in a gesture that feels eerily familiar.
My chest tightens.
I’ve seen that exact expression in the mirror.
“Hey,” I say softly, lifting one hand in a small wave even though he probably can’t hear me through the glass.
He blinks once.
Then he waves back.
That’s when Tilda walks into the courtyard.
She appears through the sliding door with the purposeful stride of someone who has exactly fifteen minutes of visitation time and intends to use every second of it. The moment Jesse sees her his entire posture changes. He drops the toy and runs toward her with a delighted shout.
“Mama!”
She scoops him up before he can collide with her knees, laughing softly as she lifts him against her hip. The sound of that laugh carries faintly through the glass barrier, and something in my chest twists painfully at the warmth in it.
“You having fun?” she asks him.
He nods enthusiastically and begins explaining something about the toy drone using a combination of toddler logic and enthusiastic hand gestures.
I watch them together for several long seconds.
The way she holds him.
The way he leans into her shoulder without thinking.
The small, unconscious touches that happen between people who spend every day in each other’s orbit.
My throat tightens.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “There’s definitely a story there.”
Tilda shifts Jesse to her other hip and turns slightly toward the courtyard exit.
That’s when she sees me.
The transformation is immediate.
The easy warmth disappears from her expression like someone flipped a switch.
Her shoulders stiffen.
Her eyes narrow.
Even through the glass I can read the silent message perfectly.
Not here.
Jesse notices the change in her posture and follows her gaze toward the window. When he sees me standing there he brightens immediately.
“Hi!” he shouts, waving again.
Tilda closes her eyes for half a second.
Then she walks toward the exit door.
A moment later the courtyard door slides open and she steps into the commons with Jesse balanced on her hip.
Up close the resemblance is even harder to ignore.
The kid has the same burnished gold eyes my older brother inherited from our father. The same subtle ridge along the cheekbone that shows up in half my family photos. Even the way he grips the collar of Tilda’s shirt with one small fist looks uncannily familiar.
“Bron,” Tilda says in a voice that carries all the warmth of a locked airlock.
“Tilda.”
Jesse leans forward slightly, studying me with open curiosity.
“You again,” he says solemnly.
I grin despite myself.
“Yeah, kid. Me again.”
Tilda adjusts her grip on him.
“We’re leaving.”
“Before or after we talk?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Oh, I think there is.”
Her jaw tightens.
Jesse looks between us with increasing interest.
“Are you friends?” he asks.
“Complicated,” I say.
“Bron,” Tilda warns.
I take a slow breath.
Then I decide to stop dancing around the question.
“Is he mine?”
Jesse tilts his head.
Tilda goes completely still.
For a long moment she doesn’t say anything at all.
Then she exhales slowly.
“We are not doing this here.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Because you don’t get one.”
“Tilda—”
“Not here.”
Her voice is sharp now, and I notice the camera drone drifting lazily through the commons behind me.
Ah.
That explains part of it.
I step sideways so the drone can’t get a clear angle on her face.
“Fine,” I say quietly. “We’ll move.”
She hesitates.
Then she nods once and walks quickly toward a quiet hallway branching away from the visitation area.
I follow.
The corridor is empty except for a maintenance robot slowly polishing the floor tiles. The hum of its motor echoes faintly against the walls.
Tilda stops halfway down the hall and turns toward me.
“This conversation ends now.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash.
“You do not get to show up here and start making accusations.”
“I asked a question.”
“You made an assumption.”
“Look at him, Tilda.”
“I have,” she snaps. “Every day for two years.”
The words land harder than she probably intended.
Two years.
The number echoes through my head again.
“Tilda,” I say quietly.
“No.”
Her voice shakes slightly now.
“No, Bron. I am not doing this with you.”
“You disappeared,” I say. “Then a couple years later you’ve got a half-Vakutan kid who looks like he borrowed my family’s genetics for a science project.”
“You are imagining things.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then why won’t you just say it?”
Her hands tighten around Jesse’s back.
The kid watches us both with wide eyes, clearly aware something important is happening even if he doesn’t understand the details.
“Because,” she says slowly, “you don’t get to interrogate me about my life.”
“I’m not interrogating you.”
“You’re accusing me.”
“I’m asking if he’s mine.”
“No.”
The answer comes fast.
Too fast.
And we both know it.
Silence settles over the hallway.
Jesse shifts slightly and pats her shoulder.
“Mama mad?”
She softens instantly.
“No, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “Mama’s fine.”
The tenderness in her voice hits me harder than any argument could.
I take a step back.
“Tilda.”
“What.”
“If he is mine—”
“He’s not.”
“If he is,” I continue calmly, “I deserve to know.”
Her eyes flash with something dangerously close to panic.
“You deserve nothing.”
The words sting more than I expect.
For a moment we just stand there, staring at each other across a gulf of unresolved history.
Then the drone noise grows louder behind us.
Tilda hears it too.
She turns immediately and starts walking back toward the family wing.
“This conversation is over.”
“Tilda.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Tilda!”
She disappears through the visitation door without looking back.
The hallway falls silent again.
I stand there for several seconds staring at the empty space where she was standing a moment ago.
Then I let out a long breath.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “that was productive.”
But the truth settles quietly into my thoughts as I turn back toward the main compound corridor.
The resemblance is real.
The timeline is real.
And Tilda’s reaction?
That might be the most convincing evidence of all.
Still.
If the last few years of my life have taught me anything, it’s that forcing answers out of someone rarely ends well.
So for now I do the only thing that feels remotely intelligent.
I wait.
Because sooner or later the truth has a way of walking out into the open on its own.