“Think he’s cracking?”
“Or distracted. You hear what Swan said? He’s been late twice. That’s not Kaz.”
I don’t move. Don’t blink.
“Heard Trozius tore into them both, but Kaz got the worst of it. Didn’t even argue.”
“He’s slipping. You don’t go from top scores to mid-tier unless something’s eating you.”
Their footsteps fade, mercifully. My fingers dig into the edge of the desk.
I should’ve stepped in. Told them to get back to drills. Snapped their chain of gossip like I’ve done a hundred times before.
But I didn’t.
Because every word rang true.
I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale.
Then I do the worst thing I can possibly do.
I open the sim logs.
I tell myself it’s for evaluation purposes. A review. Standard protocol.
But I don’t look at his scores.
I look at him.
The way he moves in the cockpit—tight, sharp, urgent. Like he’s trying to outrun something that keeps clawing at his six. He doesn’t fly like the Kaz I know. He flies like a man unraveling. Like the edge of the void is a welcome alternative to whatever he left behind on the ground.
He checks his wingmates constantly, even when he’s falling behind. Protects them like it’s instinct. No hesitation. No hesitation until he pulls too hard, too fast, and overshoots a run that should’ve been textbook.
I watch that clip three times.
Then I close the sim.
There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go down.
That night, I can’t sleep.
Not even a little.
I sit on the edge of my bed, robe pulled tight, hair loose and wild around my shoulders. My quarters feel too quiet. Too neat. Too wrong.
My comms ping once.
Kelsey.
I debate ignoring it. Then sigh and hit accept.
Her face fills the screen—half-shadowed, grinning like she’s already caught me doing something scandalous.
“Look who finally decided to show signs of life,” she says.
I try for a smile. Fail. “Been busy.”
“Uh huh. And I’ve been celibate. Don’t lie to me, Nova.”
