22. Garokk
GAROKK
T he door hisses open like it resents being part of this moment.
I step into the secured corridor with the kind of stillness that comes from war—not the kind you fight, but the kind that comes after . The kind that lingers in your bones like smoke. Every inch of me is alert, but nothing shows. You can’t give them your nerves. Not here. Not in front of them .
Isolde stands at the far end of the room, back straight, jaw locked, eyes unreadable. There's an observation panel behind her, framing the void of space like a painting. But it's not the stars I see first.
It’s the boy.
He's to her right—half behind her, half beside her. His stance wobbles between pride and uncertainty, as if he's still deciding whether to stand tall or cling tighter to the hand looped around his shoulder.
She’s holding him with one arm, anchored with the precision of a woman who’s had to keep herself and another alive at the same time. It’s not protective in the way people usually mean it. It's a barrier. A line drawn.
My boots click once against the floor.
The sound echoes.
He hears it—turns his face slightly, just enough to catch me in full. Eyes like polished storm glass. Alert. Too alert for his age.
He doesn’t flinch.
Not even a little.
Just watches.
Sizing me up.
Like I’m some equation he doesn’t know yet—but means to solve.
A small crease forms between his brows. His mouth tightens. His shoulders pull back a little, like something inside him’s already made the call: I am not afraid of you.
And that...
That’s me.
That’s mine.
I don’t let it show. Gods, I can’t. Not now. Not here.
The two guards posted at the wall tense up when I glance their way, like I’m going to lunge or roar or flip a table. I do neither. I just let the silence stretch.
“Don’t say anything,” Isolde says suddenly, and her voice shivers through me like old lightning. “Not in front of him.”
Her grip on the boy tightens—not harsh, but firm. Tactile punctuation to words that already carry weight.
“I wasn’t going to,” I answer, voice low.
She narrows her eyes. “You don’t get to decide what happens next.”
I don’t blink. “Neither do they.”
My head tips toward the guards. Their fingers twitch closer to their sidearms. I raise a brow, and they freeze.
No blasters. No dramatics.
Just presence.
The weight of it.
“Captain Garokk,” the lead security officer mutters. His voice is stiff, programmed for corporate diplomacy. “You’re in violation of?—”
I cut him off with a look.
“I’m not here to argue statutes,” I say. “I'm here to leave. But not until I make sure she and the boy walk free.”
Isolde’s spine tightens just slightly at “the boy.” Not a twitch. Not visible to anyone else. But I know her body like my own breath.
Still, she says nothing.
No denial.
No admission.
Her silence confirms what her eyes already screamed on that blasted promenade.
But I won't say it. I won't claim it.
Because the right to do so isn’t mine.
Not yet.
The security captain clears his throat. “We have protocols.”
“And I have patience,” I reply. “But only enough for this room. ”
The boy’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. He's not hiding. Not flinching. Just... watching. Calculating. Like he knows something’s shifted, but not what.
I take one step closer.
Isolde shifts instantly, pulling him a breath’s width further behind her.
I freeze.
“I'm not here to hurt him,” I say, and the words feel like knives unsheathed in my throat. “Or you.”
She stares at me, eyes flaring with heat. “You already did.”
And gods, that lands. Right in the chest.
She doesn’t yell.
She doesn’t throw anything.
But the truth in that sentence cracks me sideways.
I turn slightly toward the guards. “You escort me back to my ship, or I leave through a hull. Your choice. But either way, I walk out clean. And so does she.”
“You’re a wanted man,” the officer says tightly.
“Then want me on your sensors—not in your morgue. I walk. They stay untouched. And your station doesn’t turn into a newsfeed bloodbath.”
His jaw tics.
He nods once.
“That’s the deal,” I say.
“Those are your terms,” he counters.
I smile. It’s not kind. “The only ones that matter.”
He glances at Isolde for confirmation.
She doesn’t look at him.
She doesn’t look at me , either.
She just pulls her son gently into her side and whispers something in his ear.
He nods.
Barely.
The motion is tiny. Incomplete. Like he’s unsure whether to agree or rebel.
She presses her forehead to his temple, just for a second.
And my chest feels like it’s full of ash.
She’s had to do this without me.
All of it.
The nights.
The fear.
The explaining.
And now, I’m a ghost breathing in her doorway.
I take one last look at the boy.
Not mine.
Not yet.
But somehow... always was.
He looks back.
And this time, just faintly—just barely—he lifts his chin a little higher.
Not a challenge.
A mirror.
I turn and walk out without another word.
Not because I want to.
Because if I don’t, I might not be able to leave at all.
They lock me in a luxury cage.
Polished floors. Curved glass walls. Air perfumed like citrus and antiseptic. The kind of place designed to keep billionaires calm while storms rage outside. High-end panic room with better lighting. I'm supposed to feel honored. Safe.
I feel nothing.
The guards outside don’t talk. I count three—one at the main entry, two pretending to be shadows near the lifts. No weapons visible. Doesn’t matter. They’ve got neural-linked drones circling this wing, eyes baked into the walls. It’s not a prison, technically.
But a door’s still a door if you didn’t choose to walk through it.
I don’t argue.
I don’t pace.
I just sit on the corner of the low-slung couch, boots planted wide on plush carpet like I might crack the floor with my weight. My hands are still.
My crew is not.
The comm flares to life with a snarl. “Boss, this is garbage.”
Vrek’s voice is thunder fed through static. I lean forward, press the transceiver implant in my neck.
“Stand down,” I say.
“No.” His growl punches the signal hard. “You told us we were in, quick scope, no contact. Now you’re boxed and we’re circling like buzzards. Crik’s talking mutiny and Thresk’s too damn quiet. That means he’s planning something.”
“I told you to hold.”
“You told us to trust you.”
“I meant it.”
He lets out a low, guttural laugh. “You mean a lot of things lately. None of ‘em put food on the table or steel in the vault. What the hell are we doing here, Captain?”
He spits the title like it might not fit anymore.
I don’t answer right away. I let the silence bleed through the signal. Let him hear the quiet weight of everything I’m not saying.
When I finally speak, it’s low.
“Didn’t ask for a vote.”
“Didn’t ask to sit on our asses while you play house with ghosts.”
“ Vrek. ”
He goes silent.
I take a breath through my teeth. The air in here tastes recycled. False. Like nothing in this place has ever been lived in.
“Eyes on your post. I’ll handle the rest,” I say.
“Better do it fast,” he grunts, and clicks off.
The room hums, faint and sterile.
I stand and cross to the window. The city-ring glitters below like a necklace strangling a dying star. Pyramus Station is a monument to synthetic peace—shiny, overpriced, always on the edge of fire.
My reflection in the glass looks older than I remember. Not worn. Just… distant. Like I’ve stepped sideways from the man I used to be and haven’t quite found the way back.
A soft chime buzzes behind me.
“Permission to enter?” comes the voice.
Slick. Controlled. Vaguely amused.
Reflector.
I don’t bother looking. “Door’s open.”
The AI’s projection flickers into the room—solid light, sculpted to look almost human. Polished frame. Clean features. But his eyes are too still. Too calculating. He’s wearing a suit today. Silver cuffs. Real fabric. All for show. He likes pretending he’s above us.
“Nice digs,” he says, eyeing the suite. “Didn’t peg you for a man who enjoys velvet walls.”
“I don’t.”
“Pity. They really do scream ‘self-reflection.’”
I turn slowly. “You didn’t come to critique the décor.”
“No,” he agrees, folding his arms. “I came because she’s pacing. And when she paces, I start calculating probabilities. Unpleasant ones.”
I arch a brow. “Isolde send you?”
“She doesn’t have to,” Reflector says, smug. “I’m still embedded in her network protocols. I’m loyal. ”
I step toward him.
He holds position.
“I never questioned her loyalty,” I say.
“Good. Because you’ve tested it plenty.”
He circles slowly, studying me like a puzzle box.
“She doesn’t trust you.”
“She shouldn’t.”
“She’s scared. For herself. For the boy.”
My jaw tightens.
“She has a right to be,” I say.
“And yet… you’re here.”
“I didn’t come to drag them into anything.”
“Then why did you come, Garokk?” Reflector leans in, his voice dipping to a whisper. “Because you missed her? Because you missed the life you burned? Or because that boy looked up at you and you finally saw the truth you buried under wreckage?”
I stare at him for a long time.
Then I look past him.
Back to the window.
Back to the stars.
“To fix what I broke.”
Reflector stills.
He studies me. Really studies. For a flicker of a moment, the sarcasm slips. The mask cracks. What’s behind it isn’t trust. But maybe... maybe it’s comprehension.
“You think that’s still possible?”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m not sure.
But the silence speaks for me.