I open my mouth to respond, but he moves. Steps closer, near enough that I can see the ridges in his skin, the seams of regeneration, the slight twitch of muscles taut from overuse.
His lips brush mine—quick, shattering—and he halts. Eyes flick closed then open. Regret, maybe. Surprise. Desire.
I don’t speak. I don’t move.
He steps back, the cane tapping. “I—” he chokes.
I force a small laugh. “You didn’t mean to. It’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “I meant it.”
We stand there under the glow of biolight vines. The world is still. His breath mingles with mine. The garden smells like green and possibility and the quiet ache of edges not yet softened.
When we finally part ways, I walk faster, boots echoing on stone. Night comes and I don’t sleep.
I dream of golden scales brushing against skin. Of hands cupped to me, strong, unexpected. Of voices—his and mine—echoing across empty rooms. I wake to silence, the plush lizard in my fist, the edges of hope cutting me open.
CHAPTER 6
KYLDAK
Iwake before the alarm can even think of starting. The pale morning light is just a whisper through my window slats. My body is a rack of glass and gears. The prosthetic interface hums in my skull, reminding me: you’re not broken beyond repair. Maybe.
I rise. The brace on my leg and the servo in the shoulder joint hiss protest as I shift weight. Pain—and the promise of it—ripples. I grit my teeth and step forward anyway. Each movement tastes like iron and burned ozone.
I brush past clothes thrown on the floor, touch the edge of the bed where last night’s sleep left me half-drowned in nightmares. I go to the holo-console and flick it on. The air is thick with expectation—like I’m stepping into a sniper’s moment.
News feeds cascade in. Peace rallies clouding city plazas. Veterans with missing limbs brandishing signs, “We were promised more.” A close-up: a man’s hand, trembling, holding the remains of an Alliance flag. Rain falls. Somewhere a mother wails. Behind it all, smoke rising like the last gasp of dying fires.
My fists clench. My cybernetic arm socket hums. The blood behind my implants pulses. Rage is a coiled thing inside me—tight, simmering, dangerous.
I slam the holo off. The silence kills. My own heartbeat pounds in my ears. I blink, willing the shadows of memory to recede. They don’t.
The gym doors hiss. I enter. The floor smells of iron weights, spilt sweat, old gristle, ambition. The weight platforms gleam under cold lights. Muscles twitch at the edges.
I find the bar. Load it. The plates slide with authority. I grip it, wrists smarting. The servo in my shoulder protests. But I push. Push until the joint whines, until the prosthetic shoulder flickers like it’s going to burn. Sparks? Maybe.
I push more. A sputter. Finally—a pop. The system hiccups. My grip slips. The bar crashes. Echo of metal against rubber. Tools clang in other bays. I stand, chest heaving, eyes locked on where the weight fell.
She appears. Jaela, in the doorway. Her face is fierce. Her eyes storm. She doesn’t rush. She lets the air crack.
“You went too far,” she says. Voice low but sharp. The echo of leather and mechanical breath between us.
“I’m trying,” I rasp.
“Trying what? To bury yourself in metal and pain until no one can reach you?” She steps forward. Her boots echo on tile. The lines of her jaw are drawn. “You’re doing this for everyonebutyourself.”
I flat laugh. “You think you know me?” My voice cracks. “You think Iletpeople in?”
She doesn’t blink. “I think you’re scared of beinghumanagain.” Her tone is accusation and plea both.
I close the gap. Forehead to hers. Her breath is soft and sharp and close. A struggle of heat. “Stop fixing me,” I whisper. “Just feel me.”
Her pupils dilate. Her breath hitches. The tape of restraint cracks.
But she shoves me—not gently, not cruelly—but strong. Enough. Enough to carve space. Enough to hurt me. “I won’t be your project,” she hisses, voice broken.
She turns, storms away. I want to catch her. To tell her that she is not a project. But my legs refuse me. My chest roars. I stand rigid.
