4. Leah
LEAH
He’s not here for the coffee.
Doesn’t matter how casual he makes his posture or how well-worn his boots look—he sits like a coiled cable, all quiet control and predator stillness. Not predatory, exactly. Just... deliberately placed. Like if you blink, he might be gone. Or closer.
I clock him in three seconds flat.
No one that broad moves that silently. No one from Vakutan sectors shows up unannounced unless they’re shopping for something.
Or someone.
And he’s watching me. Not the way creeps do, with that slow-drip sleaze that sets off alarms. This is cleaner. Tactical. His eyes do the work of a dozen scanners—tracking posture shifts, stress tells, behavioral tics. He’s reading me like I’m a glitch in a codebase he can’t leave unsolved.
So I smile.
Just a flicker, but I know it hits like a slap.
If we’re going to do this dance, I’m not showing up unarmed.
“Rough day?” he says like it’s an opening volley.
I reply with, “Does it look like I want conversation, or is this just your mating ritual?”
He laughs. Points to him for not flinching.
But I still keep my cup between us like it’s a damn riot shield.
Every instinct I’ve ever honed is flashing amber. His tone’s warm, casual. But his questions are pressure probes. Light taps looking for fault lines.
He says he's from “Station Ops.” Which, sure. And I’m a royal heiress vacationing in the slums because I love the smell of coolant and existential dread in the morning.
We volley for a while. Banter. Punchline fencing.
But beneath the jokes, I hear it. The clockwork edge in his voice. Like he’s running dual processors—one for conversation, one mapping me in real-time.
He doesn’t even drink his coffee. Just holds it like a prop.
And then, mid-convo, mid-snark, mid-normalcy?—
He drops the hammer.
“You’ve got a real talent for knowing which crates need ‘reinspection,’” he says, smooth as synth-silk. “And which door codes keep your people breathing a little easier.”
My spine doesn’t snap straight. That’d be too obvious.
But my pulse does a little suicide sprint up my throat.
I nod, slow, like he’s just complimented my hair. “Do I know you?”
“No. But I know enough.”
My gaze flicks past him—one exit to the left, one behind the counter. The corner of my tray is sharp enough to gouge a throat if I angle it right. The server bot at my twelve is loaded with boiling brew. Could dump it across his legs and run.
I catalog options.
Weapons. Barriers. Escape.
And still keep smiling.
Because this is how it works. You survive by being sweet enough not to be feared and sharp enough not to be followed.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t press.
Just sets the cup down—gently—and says, “If I were League, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d already be archived.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m not here to hurt you, Leah. Or anyone under your umbrella.”
He knows my name.
Not the barista-mangled version. Not the misfiled ID tag one. The real one. The way my mom used to say it when I stayed out too late.
I stare him down.
“What do you want?”
He leans back. Not relaxed. Measured.
“Your skills. Your discretion. And your alignment with not being dead.”
“That last one’s conditional.”
“Everything is.”
He’s good. I hate how good.
There’s no bravado in his tone. No push. He’s not trying to intimidate me. He’s trying to let me pick the threat out of the lineup all by myself.
Which makes it worse.
Because he doesn’t need to threaten me. That’s how you know someone’s capable. They give you the out. Let you write your own ultimatum.
And you still walk the path they already laid.
“You’ve been watching me?” I ask.
“For a few days.”
My throat tightens. Not from fear—yet. From exposure. The realization that all my carefully balanced blind spots have been lit up like a holiday parade.
“What gave me away?”
“You didn’t get greedy.”
That throws me.
“What?”
“You’re not bleeding the system. You’re shifting risk. Protecting your corner, not expanding it.”
I frown. “Is that... supposed to be praise?”
“It’s an observation. I make a lot of those.”
His eyes lock with mine.
“Alliance wants this leak shut down. Quietly or permanently. I can make sure it’s the first one.”
“Or you could’ve just reported me and saved yourself the chat.”
“I don’t like wasting assets.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wow. I feel so valued.”
He cracks a faint smile. The first real one. It’s unnerving. Not because it’s fake—but because it isn’t.
“I can get you clear of the League,” he says. “And the vultures sniffing around your enclave. You’ve got three contractor teams cross-referencing your manifests. One of them already tried bribing your night shift lead. He turned it down. He’ll be dead by next cycle.”
My skin goes ice cold.
He doesn’t blink.
“Why help me?” I ask, quieter now. “What’s the catch?”
“You help me trace deeper leaks. I help you keep breathing.”
“Simple as that?”
“Yes.”
I sit back. Fold my arms.
“No civilian harm. No conscription. No using my people as bait.”
“Agreed.”
“And I don’t answer to you.”
“No. But you will coordinate with me.”
“Semantics.”
“Precision.”
Gods.
It’s the way he agrees too fast. No negotiation. No manipulation. Just—yes. Done.
Like he already factored in my non-negotiables and came prepared with the right answers.
I don’t trust that.
I don’t trust him.
But I do recognize something I haven’t seen in too long.
Competence.
And that’s dangerous.
“So,” I say, voice light, heart hammering. “Do I get a name, or are we doing the whole ‘mysterious stranger saves my life’ routine?”
He leans forward just a hair.
“Kalev.”
“Just Kalev?”
“For now.”
“Of course.” I sip my drink. “You always this charming?”
He shrugs. “Only when I’m blackmailing new friends.”
I smile despite myself.
The smile feels wrong. Like a muscle I forgot how to use.
This whole thing is wrong. But familiar. I’ve lived in the shadows long enough to know what it looks like when someone invites you deeper, instead of trying to drag you out.
Kalev isn’t saving me.
He’s offering me a seat on the lifeboat he’s already scuttling.
And I?
I’ve never been a great swimmer.