Chapter 7
MARA
The walk back to my quarters feels like walking into my own disappearance.
Something’s wrong. Not in the obvious way—no sirens, no security team breathing down my neck—but in the quiet. The way the corridor lights flicker just a second too long before stabilizing. The way my compad doesn’t buzz when it should, like the air itself is holding back.
When I reach my door, the override pad doesn’t chirp. It glows faint green. Unlocked.
My chest tightens.
I know I locked it.
The second I step through the threshold, my breath catches—and not from fear.
Tatek is already inside.
Sitting on the floor with his back to the door, legs folded, hands resting easy on his thighs. His presence is so quiet, so still, it takes a full second for my brain to register him as a person and not a construct someone left behind. His head tilts slightly, a nod. Acknowledgment. No apology.
My fists clench.
“You broke into my quarters,” I say.
“I anticipated your return.”
“That’s not a justification.”
His tone doesn’t shift. “You were vulnerable outside this sector. Your quarters are easier to secure.”
I step further in, letting the door slide closed behind me. “Do you normally let yourself into locked rooms uninvited?”
“I do when protocol is voided by risk.”
“Risk to who?”
He finally turns his head to look at me. There’s something unreadable in his gaze—but not cold. Not distant. Just… awake.
“You,” he says.
I drop my bag hard on the nearest flat surface. It lands with a dull thunk that makes me wince, but I don’t apologize. My pulse is a war drum in my ears. Not fear. Not quite anger. Just a tight, tangled thing curling behind my ribs.
“You couldn’t have waited outside like a normal overbearing guardian?”
“I considered it.”
“And?”
“You were gone longer than scheduled. Communications are disrupted. Civilian IDs are being scrambled in real time.”
My blood goes cold. “Scrambled?”
He nods. “Data drift. No confirmation of deletion, but designation pathways are folding in on themselves.”
“In English, Tatek.”
“They’re erasing people without fully erasing them.”
I blink. “So they’re ghosting civilians.”
“Yes.”
I run both hands through my hair. My scalp tingles from the tension. “Gods. That’s why my compad went dark.”
“It’s likely your ID was flagged for reroute. They haven’t pulled you yet, but the process is… active.”
My knees give out. I sit on the edge of the bed, hard.
I don’t cry. I don’t scream. But my voice comes out thin. “They’re going to unwrite me.”
“No,” he says simply.
“How can you be sure?”
“I am here.”
I stare at him. “You think that’s enough?”
He nods once.
It’s infuriating.
It’s also the first thing that’s made me feel safe in hours.
“You ever think about how many rules you’ve broken since we met?” I ask, trying to shove the fear somewhere manageable.
“Continuously.”
I narrow my eyes. “You keep track?”
“Of course.”
“Let me guess. Double digits?”
“Seventeen breaches. Five of which are high-grade violations under Alliance Regulation 14.2A.”
“Seventeen?” My voice cracks between disbelief and a laugh I don’t quite let out. “You’re serious.”
“I am always serious.”
I huff. “That might be the least comforting thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Then you are fortunate.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Was that a joke?”
His brow furrows. “Possibly.”
I roll my eyes. “We need to work on your sense of timing.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Timing is subjective.”
“Not when you’re about to be memory-wiped by an authoritarian regime, it’s not.”
He falls quiet.
And then, softly, he says, “You won’t be.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that like you can stop it.”
“I already have.”
The words settle between us. Unyielding.
He stands slowly and moves to the wall, sliding down into a seated position. Cross-legged. Relaxed. Watching me.
It’s a strange thing, having someone watch you and not feel judged. Assessed, maybe. Analyzed, definitely. But not reduced.
“Why me?” I ask.
He blinks once. “Clarify.”
“Out of everyone in that checkpoint line. Out of everyone on this station. Why did you choose me?”
“I didn’t.”
My breath catches.
“I felt you,” he continues. “Before I knew your name. Before I saw your file. There was… resonance.”
“Great,” I mutter. “So I’m a tuning fork.”
“You are more than that. You are a fixed point in a shifting system. You do not blur when observed.”
I stare at him. “That’s… kind of beautiful. And also terrifying.”
He nods.
“You say stuff like that and I can’t tell if it’s romantic or diagnostic.”
“Both.”
My heart skips.
I slide off the bed and sit beside him. The floor is colder than it should be. He’s warm next to me. Too warm. Like a living battery.
“You ever do this before?” I ask. “Break rules. Sit on floors. Watch women sleep.”
He answers without hesitation. “No.”
“Because you weren’t allowed?”
“Because it never mattered.”
That stops me cold.
His eyes meet mine—steady, unreadable. But there’s something there now. Something open.
“Tatek…” I hesitate. “Would you break more rules… for me?”
He doesn’t answer.
Not right away.
Instead, he reaches down, unfastens the comms unit from his wrist, and sets it aside. Then he unclasps his outer jacket—precise, methodical, no flourish—and folds it in one motion.
When he speaks again, it’s quiet. Measured.
“I already have.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
There’s no flourish. No grand declaration. Just… truth.
I lean back against the wall beside him, knees up, arms folded over them. The silence between us isn’t heavy now. It’s something else.
“You always like this?” I ask.
He glances at me. “Like what?”
“Calm. In control. Emotionally constipated.”
He blinks. “I do not have bowel issues.”
I laugh. “Gods. You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “You make me insane.”
“I am aware.”
We sit like that for a while. Shoulder to shoulder. Breathing the same air. I shift slightly, and my hand brushes his knee.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t move away.
And neither do I.