“Maybe.”
“No. Kaz?—”
“Look at me,” I say.
She does.
And gods, it nearly unravels me.
Because her eyes—those furious, beautiful green eyes—are wet now. And her lips tremble like she’s holding back everything she wants to scream.
I reach for her.
Pull her in.
And kiss her like I’m stealing time from fate.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.
It’s desperate. Messy. Real.
Because this might be the last thing I ever get to feel.
When I pull back, her forehead stays against mine, our breaths tangling.
“I’m coming back,” I whisper. “I have to.”
She shakes her head again, small and aching. “You don’t know what’s in there.”
“I don’t care. My son’s waiting. You’re waiting. That’s all that matters.”
Verzius clears his throat. “Hate to interrupt the melodrama, but we’re running out of minutes.”
Nova presses something into my palm—a small crystal drive, glowing faintly blue. “This is the counter-sequence. If you can reach the core, plug it in. It’ll stabilize the collapse.”
I nod.
Then I’m moving.
Strapping into the launch rig.
The preflight routine feels like muscle memory now. The ship hums under my fingers. Sleek, responsive. Hungry.
The gate pulses ahead—massive and shimmering with barely-contained power, its edges warping the air, light bending in ways it shouldn’t. It doesn’t look like a machine anymore.
It looks like a wound.
And I’m diving straight into it.
Kaz to Control. Lining up for insertion.
Nova’s voice crackles through the comms. “Don’t be a hero.”
I smirk. “Never. I’m a legend, remember?”
Verzius grunts. “Just don’t get vaporized, golden boy.”
The launch rail clicks.
