“Hold on!” someone shouts.
The words vanish into the roar.
The restraint strains.
Then snaps.
The world drops out from under me as I am pulled backward, the shuttle vanishing above me in a blur of motion as gravity takes hold.
The sky spins.
The ground rushes up.
The wind tears at my face, my body twisting as I try to orient, trying to find any control in the chaos.
The impact hits like a shockwave, slamming through me with crushing force as the ground rises to meet me, and the pain explodes outward, white-hot and overwhelming.
Air leaves my lungs in a violent rush.
Sound disappears.
Then returns all at once in a rush of heat and wind and distant noise that barely registers.
The desert presses against me, the sand hot and abrasive against my skin, the air dry and harsh as it scrapes into my lungs with every shallow breath.
I lie there, unmoving, not because I choose to, but because my body refuses anything else, and the world narrows to sensation as pain pulses through every part of me.
My fingers twitch against the sand.
My chest rises, then falls, uneven and strained.
And somewhere through the haze?—
I realize I survived.
CHAPTER 22
HRASK
The report sits on my console under sterile white light, its clean formatting almost glowing against the darker metal surface around it. The air carries that faint, recycled sharpness I barely notice most days, but now it feels drier, thinner, like it is scraping the back of my throat with every breath I take. Around me, operators murmur in controlled tones, fingers tap across interfaces, and the quiet rhythm of routine continues without interruption.
Except for the line staring back at me.
Transport malfunction. Fatality confirmed. Lieutenant Jolie.
My hand hovers just above the console, fingers curled slightly like I am about to interact with the display but never quite closing the distance, and I realize I have stopped breathing for a second too long. I drag in a slow inhale, the air tasting metallic as it settles in my lungs, and I read the line again without blinking.
“No,” I mutter under my breath, the word rougher than I expect.
The report doesn’t shift.
It doesn’t expand.
It doesn’t explain.
It just sits there, precise and contained, like the outcome was decided long before the words were written.
“That’s not how she goes,” I say quietly, leaning forward as I pull the full report into view.
