Every line.
Every lie.
No commentary or edits. Just the raw, ugly truth.
Because I don’t know how deep this goes yet. But I do know this: something is very wrong with Stark’s wormhole data.
And I’m going to find out how far the rot runs.
CHAPTER 33
KAZ
Ishouldn’t be here.
The neon flickers in time with the thump of bass leaking through the walls of the Daveros tavern, like the whole building’s breathing in sync with the ache in my chest. I should be reviewing launch telemetry. Prepping for the next wormhole sim. Sleeping, even. But instead, I’m standing outside the only half-lit bar this side of the blast zone, my hand hovering near the door like a goddamn teenager stalling on the front porch.
And then I see her.
Through the dusty window—Nova.
Sitting alone at the corner booth, back to the wall, one foot hooked around the leg of the table like she’s ready to bolt at any second. Same old habit. A habit I know because I’ve watched her do it a thousand times—on ships, at mess halls, under a sky too red to be safe.
Her hair’s up, messy like she gave up halfway. There’s a drink in her hand, untouched. She’s staring at nothing in particular. But there’s this tightness around her mouth I recognize too well.
She’s thinking.
Not the good kind.
The kind that leads to locked doors and solo missions.
I push the door open before I can talk myself out of it.
The place smells like ion oil, stale synth-beer, and someone’s cologne that never should’ve made it past customs. The crowd’s thin. A few engineers laughing too loud. A tech couple slow dancing off-beat to a jukebox ballad. No one notices me slip in.
She does.
Her eyes flick up before I’m halfway across the room. She clocks me, blinks once, then looks back down at her glass like I’m just another ghost. But she doesn’t get up. Doesn’t bolt.
So I keep walking.
“Didn’t take you for a regular,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her. My voice is casual, but I feel like I’ve just thrown myself into open fire.
“I’m not,” she replies, deadpan. “Place has terrible lighting and worse playlists.”
“But here you are.”
She lifts her glass but doesn’t drink. “Guess I’m making poor choices tonight.”
My mouth twitches.
“Mind if I make one too?”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t tell me to leave either.
So I signal the bartender for two of whatever they’re serving that won’t rot my liver in one go.
