Chapter 41
DARUN
I’m on the floor at Amy’s apartment, the carpet cool beneath my knees, Libra in front of me, building a tower of blocks.
The room smells like fresh paint, dusty carpet, faint herbs from the rooftop greenhouse the day before.
Amy’s curled nearby on the sofa, watching me and her daughter, a soft smile playing at the edges of things.
The world outside hums — city noise, distant engines — but inside here, peace feels real, if fragile.
Libra looks up, counting blocks in a voice too patient for her age. “One, two, three…” She balances a bright red block on top.
I lean in, steadying the tower. “Four,” I say. “Steady.” My voice is soft. She beams. Amy claps quietly. My heart twins in my chest.
Then there’s a sound — a low hum, unfamiliar, electric in the corridors. The apartment seems to hush. The rear windows rattle faintly. I slide to my feet. Libra watches me, uncertain. Amy straightens. Her eyes flick to the window.
A sleek black transport hovers outside, lights off, almost invisible against the dark sky. The hum of anti-gravity deepens. My pulse thunders in my ears. It’s not just any ship.
Amy and I move toward the windows — careful, silent.
The glass shakes slightly. The ship’s side panel glides open.
Standing in the doorway of that craft is a figure in uniform: General Dowron.
Perfect posture. Clean lines. Edges razor-sharp.
His eyes — cold glass among snow — reflect the lights drifting across his chest plate.
He steps down onto the balcony. No guards. No announcement. The gravity of presence presses in. I step forward, instinct bristling, while Amy strides in behind me, protective.
Dowron bows once, tight. “Sergeant Darun,” he says, voice soft but carved of steel. “May I come in?”
The black transport door slides shut behind him. The edges hiss. He steps into the apartment. The air tastes sudden cold — ozone, taut expectation, unspoken danger.
I swallow. “General.” My voice low. My fists clench.
He glances at Libra, who has frozen mid-construction. Amy has one hand on her shoulder. Dowron’s eyes soften fractionally. “I do not intend to harm your daughter, Ms. Matthews.” He turns to me. “Darun.”
I nod. “What do you want?”
He walks past the blocks, past the sofa, straight into the living room’s heart. The lights flicker with his motion. The brass of his uniform catches. He stops near the window.
His voice is even. “I am here as warning and counsel.” He pauses. “Kanapa’s crimes — if fully exposed on your broadcast — will not be contained. The war will fracture, worlds will secede, billions may die. You understand that weight better than most.” The room contracts.
I feel every syllable. My jaw clenches. I taste dust, fear, something acidic in the back of my throat. Amy stands behind me, light pressed behind her, protective.
He turns to her. “Ms. Matthews’ show — this interview — is a powder keg. One word from Darun, one shift in tone, and the Alliance can hold. Or collapse.” His eyes flick to mine. “You have leverage.” His voice quivers with menace, or perhaps necessity. “Use it well.”
My fists unclench. I inhale. I want to scream. I want to bleed truth everywhere. But his next words land like cold iron.
“You should understand — stability has a premium.” Dowron steps closer, gaze sharp under briefing mirrors.
“If you push too far, you threaten more than reputations. Do you believe the Alliance is perfect? No. But ruin is not a cure. Let this be your altar, not your executioner.” He raises a gloved hand.
“You will deliver your interview. The narrative will shift. But you will not obliterate the system. Not yet.”
He bows, turns, strides to the transport door. The hatch opens, wind gusting. He steps out. The door slides shut behind him.
The balcony rumbles. City lights blur. The hum fades. The ship lifts. Leaves drift. The glass settles. The apartment feels heavy. The scent of herbs and warm food no longer shields the weight in the air.
I stand rooted. Libra stirs — the blocks tumble to floor. Amy rushes to me, hand trembling.
“Darun?” she whispers.
I turn, face pale, lips parted. Her face is afraid.
I swallow. My voice low: “We need to talk. After the interview.”
Libra watches, wide-eyed. Amy’s lips quiver. The moment fractures.
I walk to the window, stare at the horizon where the transport faded. The emptiness pulses. My head aches.
Amy steps beside me. Her breath warm on my arm. “What did he say?”
I exhale slow. “He’s counting on me. Counting on us. If we go too far… if we expose too much… the price — stability, lives — he says, will unravel worlds.” My voice is tight. “He’s not just warning. He’s demanding control over us.”
She presses closer. “We’ll do it carefully. Together.”
I nod, but the terror rings in my bones. I think of Kanapa’s files, the victims, the truths buried. I think of the broadcast we have a week for. I feel the weight of that meeting press into me like a noose.
I wrap an arm around Amy’s waist. She leans into me. The city hums around us, distant lights pulsing. Downstairs, Libra pats at her toys.
I whisper into her hair: “I won’t let fear decide it for me.”
The night deepens. My mind races: interview, threats, leverage, exposure. I think of the message I recorded. I think of the secret still untold. The noose isn't around my neck yet—but the rope is threaded.
I close my hand tight around Amy’s. She doesn’t pull away. The secret remains. But now, the storm edges closer. And I stand between what must be spoken and what must survive.