25. Garokk
GAROKK
S he comes for me when the station is half asleep.
No guards.
No calls.
No words wasted.
Just her silhouette in the doorway of the spa deck—hollow-lit by the garden pools and the soft pulse of lanterns strung like floating fireflies above the water.
She steps in.
And I know.
This isn’t an ambush.
It’s a surrender.
But not the kind I expected.
The air here is thick with minerals, humidity curling along the tile like silk threads. The room smells of cedar steam and something sweeter—her perfume maybe, or memory playing tricks on me.
She’s barefoot. Robe loose over her frame. Her hair’s damp, clinging to the sides of her neck like she came from a shower she didn’t plan on leaving alone.
She doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
I set the towel I’d been using down, chest bare, skin still warm from the thermal pool. Scars catch the lanternlight—pale ridges and shadowed bruises carved like a map no one wants to read.
She looks at them like she’s memorizing the roads back home.
“Don’t you dare say anything,” she murmurs.
“About what?”
“About why I’m here. About what this means.”
I nod once.
She walks to me.
Slow.
Confident.
Like gravity bends around her when she wants it to.
When she’s within arm’s reach, I expect hesitation. A question. A blink of doubt.
She gives me neither.
Her hand rises, fingers tracing a line from my shoulder down my ribs. Soft. Deliberate. Reverent.
I suck in a breath.
“Still warm,” she says.
“Too warm?”
“Just enough.”
I don’t move. Not until she does.
She leans in. Kisses the scar beneath my collarbone.
Then higher.
Then my mouth.
And when I kiss her back, I do it like it’s the first time—because in all the ways that matter, it is.
She’s bolder now.
Not searching. Not cautious.
She takes.
And I let her.
Because this is her firestorm, and I’m tired of running from the burn.
She shrugs off her robe and I catch it before it hits the floor. Lay it neatly on the chair like it’s sacred. Because she is. And I don’t want the world touching what’s mine.
Not now.
Not tonight.
She presses her palm to my chest. Over my heart.
“You still carry me here?”
I cover her hand with mine.
“Every day.”
She guides us to the edge of the heated pool. Steam ghosts around her legs as she slides in, graceful and silent. I follow, steps slow, reverent.
We meet in the center, water up to our waists.
She wraps her arms around my neck and leans in, forehead to mine.
“I want you, ” she whispers.
“Not who I was?”
“No. Not who you pretended to be either.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “I want this. You. Now. No ghosts.”
And gods help me, I’ve never wanted anything more than to be real for her.
I kiss her like a man who’s been starving. But not desperate.
Present.
Alive.
Her mouth opens to me like a secret unfolding, and I take my time learning every syllable.
Our bodies find rhythm—slow, deliberate, wrapped in heat and memory and the tremble of something neither of us can name. Every touch is a promise. Every breath is a confession.
She leads. Then lets me lead.
And when she gasps my name— not in anger, not in warning, but like an oath —I damn near fall apart inside her arms.
We make love in the water like we were born from it.
No barriers.
No lies.
Just skin and soul and the trust of two people who never stopped needing, no matter how many years carved their distance.
Later—long after the steam fades and the water stills—we climb out. Dry off. Find warmth in each other again.
She curls against me in the loungers by the artificial flame pit, her hand resting on my chest, legs tangled with mine.
“You’re not sleeping,” she says without opening her eyes.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because if I sleep... you might not be here when I wake up.”
She’s quiet for a while.
Then, “I might not.”
It hurts.
But it’s honest.
And I’ll take that.
She brushes her fingers over my scars like she’s drawing a map back to us.
“You still smell like smoke,” she says.
“You still burn like fire.”
She huffs a quiet laugh.
“Don’t go poetic on me now.”
“Wasn’t poetry. Just truth.”
She shifts, burrows deeper into my side.
I feel like maybe the war in me has a place to rest.
I wake to the sound of my name breaking apart in static.
“—Garokk—”
It’s not Isolde’s voice.
It’s Reflector.
The word tears through sleep like a blade. My hand shoots out on instinct, searching for my sidearm before I remember I don’t have one. Just soft sheets, skin still warm, her breath still soft against my chest.
I blink the haze away, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the artificial firepit flickering out beside us.
“Reflector,” I rasp. “What is it?”
The comm crackles again—sharper this time, urgent. “Vrek’s crew made their move. They’ve taken the core decks. I repeat—coup in progress.”
I sit up so fast Isolde startles awake, her hair brushing my arm.
“What?” she whispers, voice thick with sleep.
I swing my legs off the lounger and grab for my trousers. “Vrek’s mutinying.”
She’s on her feet before I finish saying it, robe clutched around her, eyes wide and already scanning the exits. She’s fast, always has been—fear never slows her down, it just sharpens her.
“Where?” I demand, hitting the comm hard. “Which decks?”
“Engineering. Security wing. Docking spines four through eight. He’s got Snarl, Savax, and a handful of others. Station controls are jammed. Core AI’s in lockdown. And Garokk—” Reflector hesitates. “He’s got hostages.”
Isolde freezes.
Her eyes find mine. “Who?”
Reflector doesn’t answer right away.
And in that silence, I already know.
“Say it,” I whisper.
The line hisses. “Pyramus is unaccounted for.”
For a second, the room tilts.
Not metaphorically. Physically. The entire deck shudders as power reroutes somewhere deep below—metal groaning, air systems wheezing. Emergency sirens spin up, low and dissonant.
Isolde grabs my arm, fingers digging into my skin. “What do you mean unaccounted for? Where is he?”
“I’m scanning,” Reflector snaps. “I had his signal ten minutes ago near the residential block. Then—nothing. Either he’s been moved into a blackout zone or someone disabled his tag.”
Her hand flies to her chest. “No—no, I just tucked him in—he was there! ”
I catch her before she can bolt for the door. “Isolde. Stop.”
She struggles against me, panicked. “Don’t—Garokk, let go?—”
“Listen to me,” I say, gripping her shoulders. “If you run blind, you’ll get yourself killed before you find him. I need you to focus.”
Her breathing stutters. She tries to pull air through her teeth. Fails. Tries again. It comes out shaky but there.
“Good,” I murmur. “Now look at me. You know this station better than anyone. Where could he hide if the system went dark?”
She blinks, dazed. “He wouldn’t hide. He’d go where he thinks I would be.”
I nod. “And where’s that?”
She hesitates, brain spinning. Then: “The central promenade. That’s where I told him to go if anything ever happened—‘find the stage, find the lights.’ But if it’s sealed?—”
“It will be,” Reflector cuts in. “They’ve locked everything from ring seven inward. I’m working bypasses, but my nodes are fragmented.”
“Then route me manual access,” I say. “And send me a layout.”
“You’re not armed.”
“I don’t need to be.”
“Garokk—”
“Do it!”
A pause. Then Reflector’s voice shifts. Harder. “Done. But you’ve got ten minutes before they reroute security to your deck.”
I turn back to Isolde. “You stay here.”
Her eyes flash. “Like hell I will.”
“This isn’t up for?—”
She shoves me, hard. “That’s my son. ”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already pulling on her clothes. Her hands tremble as she fastens the jacket. The robe’s still damp from the spa. She doesn’t care. She looks like a storm given form.
I grab her wrist gently. “If we do this, you listen to me.”
“Not if it slows me down.”
“Especially if it slows you down.”
She glares. But she doesn’t pull away.
We leave together.
The hall outside is chaos wrapped in silence.
Lights flicker amber. Emergency shutters hiss half-closed along the corridor. A pair of security droids lie deactivated near the lift shaft—Vrek’s handiwork, judging by the carbon scoring.
We move fast. My muscles remember the rhythm of command, the timing of controlled panic. Isolde follows half a step behind me, her breath steadying into the same rhythm as mine.
“Reflector,” I mutter. “Talk to me.”
“Dockside crews are in lockdown. Communications are compromised. I’ve rerouted visual feeds from your wing. You’ve got six hostiles two levels down, one of them definitely Vrek. And—Garokk?—”
“What?”
“He’s broadcasting.”
I stop.
“Play it.”
A low crackle. Then Vrek’s voice, amplified and oily through the station’s public address feed.
“Attention Orbimall citizens. This is Captain Vrek of the Marauder’s Debt. Your corporate masters and their pet pirate are done playing nice. You’re under new management.”
He pauses. There’s noise behind him—cheering, maybe. Metal boots on deck plates. My crew.
My own goddamn men.
“Now, don’t panic. No one dies—if our terms are met. The syndicate pays up, their princess behaves, and the Crimson Raider stays leashed where he belongs.”
Static. Then silence.
Isolde’s hand curls into a fist. “He’s using me.”
“No,” I say. “He’s using us. ”
She looks up at me. “You know what that means.”
“Yeah.” My throat feels raw. “He’s got leverage.”
“Pyramus.”
I don’t answer.
Because saying it makes it real.
We reach the stairwell. It spirals downward into the service tunnels. Emergency lighting paints everything a sick shade of red. The hum of the station’s life-support pulses under my boots like a heartbeat.
Isolde moves ahead of me, hair whipping around her face, fury replacing fear.
“I should’ve seen this coming,” she says.
“You couldn’t have.”
“You did.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “But not soon enough.”
Her steps falter for a heartbeat. Then she keeps moving.
By the time we reach the promenade level, the chaos has shape. The air is thick with smoke and power discharge. The scent of melted circuits burns the back of my throat. Holo-ads flicker in broken loops: SHOP SMART / STAY SAFE / CELEbrATE LIFE.
Reflector’s voice buzzes through my implant. “Security has eyes on the main atrium. They’ve barricaded civilians near the north gate. I count fifteen pirates, maybe twenty. No sign of Pyramus.”
“Any hostiles near the stage?” I ask.
“One. Vrek.”
Of course.
Isolde grabs my arm, nails digging in. “We go together.”
I meet her eyes. “You see him—you keep distance. You find Pyramus first.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then you run. You hear me? You run and you don’t look back. ”
She opens her mouth to argue, but the sound dies on her lips. Because we both hear it then.
A voice.
Small.
Echoing.
Familiar.
From somewhere beyond the smoke and the hum of broken lights.
“Mom?”
Isolde goes rigid.
My stomach drops clean out of me.
“Reflector,” I whisper. “Trace that voice.”
He’s silent for half a second. Then—“I’ve got it. East quadrant mezzanine. Upper platform.”
I grab Isolde’s hand before she bolts. “Wait.”
“Garokk—”
“Wait. He’s baiting us.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “You think I’d leave him there?”
“I think if you go first, you’ll never get to him.”
The fury in her face flickers, replaced by something else. Fear. Raw and quiet.
“What if he’s hurt?” she whispers.
“Then we make sure he isn’t.”
I squeeze her hand once. Then I let go.
And for the first time in years, she lets me lead.
The route Reflector feeds us is narrow and mean—maintenance conduits barely wide enough to stand in. Pipes rattle overhead, dripping condensation onto my back. Every step hums through my bones. Every echo sounds like footsteps that aren’t ours.
“Garokk,” Reflector murmurs. “You have to know something.”
“Make it fast.”
“If they took the boy, they didn’t do it for ransom.”
“Then what?”
“For leverage. Against you. ”
I grit my teeth. “They won’t use him long.”
“Then you’d better move. Because if Vrek gets bored, he’ll make an example out of someone.”
“Then he dies.”
Reflector doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
Because I mean it.
Every word.
When we reach the upper platform, I motion Isolde back. The railing’s bent. The lights above sputter, throwing quicksilver flashes across the deck.
Below us, in the haze, shadows move.
Too many to count.
Vrek’s voice rises from the din. “You can come out now, boss. The party’s started without you.”
My blood turns to glass.
Isolde’s hand finds mine again, tight and trembling.
And that’s when I see it—small shape, crouched near the stage, surrounded by armed men.
Pyramus.
Alive.
But terrified.