Vihl laughs quietly behind me, the sound edged with interest. “You’re not gonna like her,” he says.
“I don’t need to like her,” I reply, because that has never been part of the equation.
I turn and gesture toward the exit, not looking to see if she follows, because I already know she will.
“Walk,” I tell her.
She moves immediately, falling into step without asking for direction, and I shift to walk beside her instead of behind her, matching her pace without adjusting it. The corridor outside the bridge feels quieter after the layered noise of combat, the hum settling back into something steady as the sharper scent of discharged energy fades into the background.
“You watch everything,” I say as we move.
“Yes,” she replies.
“That’s not normal.”
“It’s necessary,” she says.
“For what,” I ask, glancing at her briefly.
“Staying alive,” she answers, and the way she says it removes any sense that it is meant to sound dramatic.
I let out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That’s one way to approach it,” I say.
“It’s the only one that works long-term,” she replies.
We take two turns in silence, the lighting shifting slightly as we move deeper into the ship, the space narrowing and quieting as fewer crew members have reason to be here. The environment changes subtly, not in function but in density, the hum softer but more concentrated.
“My crew noticed you,” I say.
“I noticed them noticing,” she replies.
“And,” I prompt.
“They’re not afraid of you the way people outside your ship are,” she says.
I glance at her again, more directly this time. “They shouldn’t be,” I reply.
“That’s not what I said,” she counters, and she doesn’t elaborate, which tells me she doesn’t need to.
We reach my quarters, and the door slides open at my approach, the interior revealing itself in the same way everything else on this ship does, without excess and without pretense. The space is functional, nothing decorative, nothing unnecessary, every object placed with intent rather than habit.
I step inside, and she follows without needing to be told, stopping just inside the threshold as the door closes behind her. The air here is warmer, less circulated, carrying a faint metallic scent that has settled into the surfaces over time.
She doesn’t move further.
She waits.
I lean back against the edge of the central table, letting my posture relax just enough to suggest ease while keeping my attention fixed on her.
“You’re not asking questions,” I say.
“I already asked the ones that mattered,” she replies.
“Which were,” I ask.
“Whether I was contained,” she says. “I’m not.”
“That’s your conclusion,” I say.
