Chapter 32 Kage
KAGE
The immigration office smells like sweat and sterilization. There’s a mechanical voice chirping overhead, something about service numbers and line etiquette, and I already want to rip it out of the ceiling.
Instead, I sit.
Too tall for the waiting room chairs. Knees jammed up, tail curling under the molded plastic like a beast trying to make itself smaller.
The receptionist gave me a pamphlet called “Cultural Courtesy for Non-Natives,” like I don’t already know how many ways they expect me to grovel.
I thumb through it anyway. Pretending. That’s what they want.
“Grolgath male—Kage?”
My name sounds wrong coming out of the speaker. Flat. Lifeless. I rise and the room hushes for half a beat, like they’re waiting for me to growl or snarl or crush something with my claws.
I don’t.
I follow the nurse through pale blue corridors that smell like recycled air and perfumed bleach. She doesn’t look back at me, not even once, even though I can feel her skin crawl when I get too close. Like she thinks the scales might rub off. Infect her.
“In here,” she says, gesturing to a sterile cube lined with machines that beep like they’re bored.
She gestures to a bench that looks like it was made for someone half my size. I crouch instead.
“We’ll begin with basic vitals and a full nanite screen. Just a precaution. Glimner has strict import restrictions on hostile AI residue.”
I grunt. Let her think it’s consent.
The scanner hums to life. Red lights glide over my chest, my arms, my spine. I can feel them searching under skin and scale, reading things I don’t even want to remember.
She squints at the screen. “Huh.”
Not a sound you want to hear.
“There’s some trace nanite activity in your bloodstream. Nothing active—just residue.” She peers at me over the rim of her compad. “Have you undergone any cybernetic procedures?”
I make my face a mask. “War injury. Long time ago. Alliance medics patched me up with whatever they had.”
She hesitates. “Ah. That would explain it.”
Would it? She moves on without pushing.
But I’m already chewing on the implications. My skin prickles like ants under it. I didn’t think… I never let them get me. But that day on the ship, with Bella—Nulegion—her arm—
The thought knots in my chest.
I keep my silence.
I endure.
Paperwork follows. Fingerprints. Scans. Interview. “What is your reason for extended stay?”
“Family,” I say.
The word tastes strange. Like metal and sugar. Like something I’m not allowed to want.
They stamp my file. Temporary approval pending background clearance.
I leave with the sun slamming into my eyes like judgment.
I stop at the community market on the way back. It’s older than the floating one, quieter. Cracked tiles underfoot, woven canopies overhead. Vendors shout less here. Everything’s a little faded but sturdy, like it’s survived more than its share of bad weather.
I buy a bag of smoked barkfruit from a stand run by a Grolgath with crinkled scales and foggy eyes. His horns are dulled with age, his voice thick with home.
“You not from around here,” he says, handing over the bag.
“Was,” I grunt. “Now I’m trying again.”
He chuckles. “Aren’t we all.”
His gaze shifts behind me, where kids run through the stalls. “Your hatchling, eh?”
I stiffen. “No.”
He eyes me, head tilted. “Mate then?”
I shake my head. “She’s not— It’s not like that.”
The elder clicks his tongue. “You sure about that?”
I don’t answer.
Because no, I’m not.
He gives me a knowing look, slow and quiet. Like he’s seen this before. Like he already knows how it ends.
I walk away.
The barkfruit tastes like ash.
Bella’s building hums with soft music and bad plumbing. The front door creaks open before I knock.
Natalie launches herself at me like a missile. “You’re back! Mama said you’d be gone forever!”
Bella stands in the doorway, laughing too fast. “I said no such thing. I said you act like he’s gone forever every time he leaves for more than ten minutes.”
I say nothing.
I hug Natalie.
Hard.
She smells like sugar and sand and something warm I can’t name.
I hold her too long.
When she pulls away, she squints up at me. “Why’re you frowny?”
“Just thinking.”
“About snacks?”
“Maybe.”
She beams.
Bella watches me from the kitchen doorway. There’s something brittle in her smile. Like glass trying to remember how to bend.
I don’t ask. Not yet.
Night again.
Stars blink into existence like wounds in the dark.
I sit on her balcony. Alone.
The air smells like fried oil and seafoam. Glimner sounds distant tonight—dull thumps of music, occasional laughter, a hovercar whining somewhere overhead.
I stare up.
Something is shifting in my chest.
I think about the way Natalie leans into me when she’s tired. The way she tugs my horns when she’s excited. The shape of her grin. The tone of her voice.
The way her eyes flicker silver when the light hits them just right.
She isn’t mine.
Except she is.
And I don’t know what it’ll mean when I finally say it out loud.
But I know what it’ll cost if I don’t.