Chapter 3
MARA
Iwake like I’ve been dragged to the surface of myself.
Not like rising from sleep. Like gasping from water. My heart's thudding hard against my ribs, and my throat is dry like I’ve been shouting—but there’s no sound. Just that suffocating station silence, thick and unmoving, like the air’s decided to keep its secrets.
I blink up at the dark. No blinking indicators. No blinking anything. For a second, I think the lights are out station-wide—but no, the faint blue glow from the recessed corner panel still hums. Soft, sterile. The ever-present hum of recycled oxygen and artificial calm.
I sit up slowly, every hair on my arms raised like I’ve been touched.
Except I haven’t.
But someone said my name.
I’m sure of it.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just… there. Whispered, close but not in the room. Like it passed through the air just as I woke.
Mara.
No voice. Just the shape of it. Carried in a breath that doesn’t belong to me.
I exhale. Deep. Slow. Center.
Paranoia is normal. Surveillance environments train you to second-guess your own instincts, and trauma finishes the job. Still, I swing my legs off the bed, pad barefoot across the floor. Cool surface beneath my skin, smooth as water-glass. I don’t make a sound. Don’t want to.
The door isn’t open.
But I feel him.
I don’t know how—I shouldn’t know how—but I do. He’s out there. Tatek. I can feel the shape of him behind the wall. The way pressure shifts when he’s nearby. Like the room is adjusting itself to fit around his presence.
I hover there a moment, palm resting against the wall panel, not pressing anything. Not yet.
He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t have to.
The door slides open anyway.
He’s standing there. Of course he is. Rigid as ever, posture impeccable, face blank like a tactical interface.
But something’s different. His shoulders are tight.
His eyes—well, it’s hard to call it eyes when they’re that unreadable.
But they watch. He’s watching me like I’ve done something unexpected.
I probably have. I’m not good at playing safe.
“Can’t sleep either?” I ask, voice hoarse.
“There has been a recalibration protocol initiated,” he says.
I blink. “Come again?”
“Station-wide recalibration. Security systems are updating on staggered cycles. During these windows, risk of misclassification increases.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So naturally, the solution is to send the brooding death-eyed guard to my bedside.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just stands there.
I narrow my eyes. “Let me guess. This sudden ‘security protocol’ requires you personally to babysit me?”
“It is protocol that individuals under provisional observation receive manual oversight during recalibration events.”
“That’s a mouthful of nonsense.”
“I did not write it.”
I step back, letting the door stay open longer than I should. “So you’re here to… what? Watch me sleep?”
His brow lifts slightly. “To ensure you are not misidentified during the interval.”
“Sounds like a long-winded way of saying I might get shot by accident.”
“That is a possibility we seek to minimize.”
“You’re a real comfort, you know that?”
Still, I don’t tell him to leave.
Still, he steps inside.
He doesn’t move beyond the threshold. Just stands inside the doorway, hands behind his back like he’s about to recite the tenets of some ancient warrior code. He doesn’t speak unless I do. And I don’t speak unless I’m sure it won’t make me sound like I want him here.
I do.
But I’m not stupid enough to say it.
“You really buy into all that protocol garbage?” I ask, moving back to sit on the bed. I don’t pull the sheet over my legs. Let him see I’m not cold.
“I follow procedure,” he says. “But I do not worship it.”
I snort. “There’s a difference?”
“There is intent.”
Something about the way he says it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up again. I lean back on my hands, watching him in the low light. He hasn’t moved an inch, but there’s tension coiled in him like a fault line.
“You always stand like that?” I ask. “Like you’re waiting to be attacked.”
“I am always prepared.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is... familiar.”
I let that sit for a moment. The room hums around us. The panel glow paints the edges of his features in icy blue. For a second, I imagine what it would take to make him drop his guard. What would make his voice break pattern. What would make him look at me like I’m more than data.
“Do you have family?” I ask, surprising myself.
“No,” he says.
“None?”
“None surviving.”
I nod. “Same.”
Silence again. This one softer. Still heavy, but not sharp.
“Why are you really here?” I ask finally.
“I told you.”
“No, you said something. That’s not the same.”
He doesn’t reply.
I look at him for a long moment. Then I lie back against the mattress and stare at the ceiling. “You’re bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Pretending you’re just doing a job.”
He steps further in now. Quietly. No sound. Just the pressure of his presence moving through the air like heat. He stops beside the wall, arms still at his back.
“You speak with certainty,” he says. “About what I do not feel.”
“Because you’re leaking all over the room.”
“I am not injured.”
“Not physically.”
Another beat of quiet. He shifts, just slightly. I hear it more than see it. His breath. The shift in air. The tension between what is said and what could be said.
Then his voice drops. Lower than I’ve ever heard it. “Your presence disrupts protocol.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should not be.”
I sit up slowly. Let the blanket fall away. Meet his gaze.
“Tell me something true,” I say.
He’s silent. But he doesn’t look away.
“Anything,” I say. “One thing. Not from a file. Not from a script. Just… something.”
He stares at me. Then: “My first command died because I hesitated.”
That’s a punch to the ribs. I didn’t expect that.
“I’ve never spoken of it,” he says. “Not even in report.”
I don’t know what to say. So I say the only thing that matters.
“You’re not hesitating now.”
He steps closer.
And I don’t move.
I feel his presence like static—low-level and constant, just beneath the skin. His boots are quiet on the floor, but the silence between us isn’t empty. It’s alive. Tense. Like the air’s waiting to see what happens next.
His shadow breaks across my legs as he stands near the bed, and I don’t shrink away. I should. I should say something flippant or sarcastic, erect some kind of emotional firewall. But I don’t. Not tonight.
He’s standing close enough that I can see the details of his uniform again—the seam lines in the shoulder plate, the fine micro-etching in the badge at his collar. The station’s ambient light doesn’t quite reach his face. Just outlines it.
“I don’t want to sleep,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond, not at first. But he doesn’t step back either.
Eventually: “Because of the dream?”
I look up, surprised. “You knew?”
“You woke with increased heart rate and audible breath irregularity.”
“So you were still monitoring me.”
“I am… attuned.”
That answer makes my chest tighten. Not in fear. In something far more dangerous.
I pull my legs up, arms draped loosely over my knees, and rest my chin on them. I feel young suddenly. Small. And I hate it. But I can’t seem to armor myself fast enough.
“You ever lose someone?” I ask, not looking at him.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
There’s a pause. “Seventeen.”
The number makes me go still. Not because it’s high—though it is—but because of the way he says it. Not casual. Not callous. Just… factual. Like those lives are still carried somewhere behind his eyes, cataloged and permanent.
“Was it war?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“That’s not how I lost mine.”
Another pause. This one mine.
“It was a file,” I say eventually. “One corrupted string of Coalition data. Just one.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“She was flagged for reclassification due to ‘non-compliance indicators.’ But she wasn’t political. She wasn’t even loud. Just curious. She asked the wrong question in a logistics report. You know what they did?”
Tatek doesn’t answer. Maybe he already knows.
“They erased her,” I say. “Digitally. No follow-up. No official notification. Just a gap. One day she existed. The next—nothing. Not even a memo.”
I close my eyes.
“She was my sister.”
There’s a sound. So quiet I almost miss it. A change in breath. The faintest shift of weight on the floor.
And then he sits.
Not on the bed. On the floor beside it. Not touching.
Not even brushing the edge of the mattress.
But close enough that I can hear the subtle stretch of the material across his knees.
His movements are so precise. Controlled.
It’s like watching a predator settle—not out of danger, but out of respect.
“You do not speak of her in your file,” he says.
“Why would I? She doesn’t exist anymore, remember?”
He exhales through his nose. Almost a sigh.
“That is not an absence,” he says quietly. “That is theft.”
The word shivers through me.
I lift my head slowly, turning to look at him. His gaze is already there—steady, unwavering. And for once, he doesn’t look away.
That alone almost breaks me.
“She used to hum when she thought no one was listening,” I say, surprising myself. “Usually old earth jazz. Real weird stuff, full of brass and off-beat rhythms. Drove me nuts.”
Tatek doesn’t smile, but something about him softens. I can’t explain it. It’s not visual. It’s just… felt.
“She had this laugh,” I go on. “It made you feel like the world hadn’t ended yet. Like it could be okay again.”
I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears slip. Not in front of him. Not yet.
“Now I can’t even prove she was real. No record. No photo. Nothing. Just me, holding the weight of her like a ghost in my ribs.”
A long pause. Then he says: “She is real. Because you remember.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is.”
I look at him again. Really look.
His posture is still formal. Knees bent, hands folded on one thigh. But there’s an intimacy in the way he holds still. Not to observe. Not to assess. Just to be with.
He doesn’t fill the silence.
He lets me breathe.
“I hate this place,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“I hate that they made me doubt myself.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that you’re the only one who’s looked at me like I’m still whole.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
But he doesn’t need to.
I shift slightly on the bed, my knees brushing closer to the edge. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel him in my peripheral. My fingers twitch against the blanket. His stay motionless.
“You’re not like them,” I say.
“No.”
“You’re not like me either.”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
He finally breaks eye contact, just for a breath, then returns it.
“I am what I was made to be,” he says. “But I am choosing… something else.”
That’s the first time I’ve ever heard his voice waver.
I sit there, wrapped in silence that doesn’t feel hostile anymore. His body is still a statue beside me—shoulders squared, spine a ruler’s edge—but the edges aren’t so sharp now. Not to me.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I murmur, staring straight ahead.
There’s a pause. “Which one?”
“The important one.”
I turn to face him, legs drawn up again, one hand resting on my knee. My heart is slamming against my ribs. Not from fear. Not even from grief anymore. Just from the fact that he’s here and I’m here, and I want something I don’t even have a name for.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” I say.
His eyes meet mine—solid and unflinching. That unblinking, unreadable calm.
“That’s wise,” he replies.
I almost laugh. “Not the answer I was hoping for.”
“I do not offer what cannot be secured.”
His voice is quieter now. Not cold. Soft. Which makes it worse.
Because suddenly I feel the temperature in the room change. Not literally, but the way the air feels heavier, closer, like the space between us is contracting. He’s not touching me. Not even close.
But my skin is burning.
We’re both staring now.
Not moving.
The silence has teeth, but they don’t bite. They hover just above the skin. Tension wraps around my ribs like a second skeleton. My pulse has gone frantic in my throat, loud and high and wild.
And he doesn’t move.
That’s what makes it unbearable.
He stays so still. Not out of disinterest. But out of choice. Restraint.
His jaw flexes once. The light catches on the curve of his mouth. There’s something unreadable simmering in his expression, like a thousand things just collided behind his eyes and not one of them made it to his tongue.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
His gaze drops—for one breath—to my mouth.
Just once.
And then back up.
I feel the moment stretch between us like pulled wire, thin and sharp and vibrating. My heart is screaming. My fingers twitch against the mattress.
If he leans forward, even slightly—I’ll meet him.
I know it. I feel it.
And suddenly, he stands.
Just like that, the pressure breaks.
He rises with practiced precision, every motion crisp, controlled, devastatingly calm.
The absence of him beside me is a slap.
I can’t even speak for a second. My mouth is dry. My whole body feels like it was about to jump off something and missed the cue. I scramble to pull my thoughts back into line, but they’re scattered across the room, smoldering.
“I’ve completed my duty,” he says.
I blink at him. “Seriously?”
“Station recalibration has concluded.”
“You’re just—leaving?”
He meets my gaze. “Yes.”
“You—”
The words die in my throat. What am I going to say? You almost kissed me? I almost kissed you? Please don’t go?
I say none of it.
He turns toward the door, pauses, then adds—almost gently: “I will return during next cycle. You will not be alone.”
Then he’s gone.
The moment the door slides shut, I exhale hard, like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.
I drop my head into my hands and sit there, breathing like a marathon just ended at my feet. My hands are shaking. My whole damn body is shaking.
Not because of fear.
Not because of trauma.
Because I wanted him to stay.
And I don’t understand why.
Not really.
Not yet.
But gods help me—when he stood up, I wanted to reach for him.
Desperately.