I sigh. “That’s not far off.”
“Is he huge?”
“Yes.”
“Scary?”
“Depends on your definition.”
“Yours.”
I pause. “He’s intense. And very loud. Also stubborn. Very, very stubborn.”
She giggles. “Sounds like your type.”
“Focus on your rehab, you little gremlin.”
After her session, I file records, calibrate a neural scanner, fix a brace for a bored Alzhon who keeps trying to use his fourth elbow to text while in motion—which is just as bad as it sounds—and somehow, through all of it, my thoughts keep sliding back to one particular image.
Kyldak, upright.
Kyldak, focused.
Kyldak, smirking like he’s got secrets he intends to use against me.
I hate it. I really do.
So when 0600 ticks around again, I stride into the session room expecting another storm. Another fight. Maybe a tray thrown at my head for old time’s sake.
Instead, I freeze in the doorway.
He’s already there.
Standing.
Not steady, but not slumped either. His cybernetic leg is engaged, weight distributed unevenly but purposefully. His balance algorithm is compensating, which means he’s been practicing. A lot.
He’s also shaved. And wearing a shirt. A tight one. I look away too quickly and then immediately hate myself for it.
“You’re early,” I say, because it’s the only thing my traitor brain lets out.
“I’m Vakutan,” he replies coolly. “We’re never late. You’re just human and slow.”
I raise a brow. “Did you come here to train or flirt with death?”
He shrugs one thick shoulder. “Depends. Are you finally going to kill me?”
I smirk and circle around him. “No. That would be too easy.”
His gaze tracks me as I grab the resistance bands and start setting up. I can feel the weight of it on my back—heavy, scorching, unblinking.
“You look... rested,” I say without looking at him.
“I dreamt of war,” he replies, voice low and gravelly. “And woke up with your voice still echoing in my skull.”
I pause. Just for a breath. Then I toss the bands at him, and he catches them with a grunt.
“Yeah, well, my voice tends to haunt the wounded. Comes with the job.”
