Kaz thinks he’s untouchable.
Let’s see how long that lasts.
CHAPTER 2
KAZ
I’ve never had an instructor I couldn’t crack. Some snap after a week. Some last a month. Once had a hard-ass from the Alzhon fleet hang on for a full quarter before she finally requested reassignment with the words “this cadet is functionally untrainable and a danger to the mission.” I wore that like a damn medal.
But this one?
Nova Starling walks like she was issued boots at birth. Every step measured, every command crisp, eyes sharp enough to cut engine cable. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t blink too much. Doesn’t even flinch when I flash my best grin—one that’s dropped jaws from Traxis-3 to the docks at New Trantor.
She just stares. Like she’s already clocked every bad decision I’ve ever made.
Which only makes it more fun.
“I give it four days,” I mutter as I adjust my flight harness in the ready room. Swan’s leaning back in his seat beside me, booted feet propped on the bench, file tablet balanced on his stomach like he’s reading it by osmosis.
He doesn’t look up. “Before what?”
“Before I get her to say yes to dinner.”
Swan barks a laugh. “You’re dreaming, gold boy.”
I shrug, flexing my neck until it pops. “Everyone’s got a weak spot. Even instructors forged in cryo-steel.”
“She’s not a weak spot kinda woman. She’s a you-won’t-see-it-coming-till-you’re-bleeding kinda woman.”
I grin wider. “Sounds like my type.”
Swan finally lowers the tablet, gives me a look. “Five credits says she shoots you down so hard you crater.”
“You’re on.”
The ready room doors hiss open and in walks Trouble herself. Nova doesn’t scan the room—sheslicesit, taking us all in with that no-bullshit command gaze. Everyone sits straighter, even the Alzhon cadet who thinks uniforms are optional accessories.
“Flight sim drills begin now,” she says, no wasted words. “You’ll be judged on performance, adaptability, and cohesion. Not swagger.”
Her eyes land on me just long enough to deliver that last part like a slap.
I tip her a mock salute.
The hangar buzzes with anticipation. The sim pods line up in neat rows, matte black, humming with power. I’m first in line, as always. Nova watches from the control tower, arms folded, hair tucked tight behind her ears. She’s not here to be impressed. She’s here to dismantle us.
Good.
The sim pod swallows me whole. I settle in, fingers flying across the controls as the internal world lights up—a fully mapped aerial combat course over simulated Coalition territory. Mines. Shield grids. Enemy formations. Nova’s design, no doubt. It’s brutal.
I live for this.
As soon as the countdown ends, I’m in the air—thrust screaming, sensors pinging, gravity bending in tight spirals as I throw the fighter into a barrel roll. Plasma detonates to my right. I dip under a shield net and skim the ground low enough to make the simulated dirt rattle.
The pod shudders with the force of the Gs, but I’m grinning. Ilovethis part. The chaos. The speed. The absolute control.
I weave through an obstacle array that should’ve cooked me, clip a wing stabilizer for show, and still nail the primary target with a direct hit.
By the time I land, sweat’s dripping down my spine and my lungs are working overtime.
