Al’s voice drags me back. The tunnel returns by degrees. Wet concrete. Coffee. Mold. Heater coil. Not Horus IV. Not the evacuation corridor. Not the plaza where my squad died buying fourteen civilians seven minutes that were not enough.
I unclench my hands. My claws have cut shallow crescents into my palms. They will close soon. Vakutan bodies are good at repairing damage. They are less skilled at forgetting how the damage happened.
“I am fine,” I say.
“Sure,” Al says quietly. “You look downright festive.”
I do not answer.
He nudges a loose stone with the toe of his boot. “You ever gonna tell me what happened there?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
“No story improves by being spoken.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Some stories rot if they stay buried.”
“Then let them rot.”
Al studies me for a long moment. His artificial eye clicks twice. “You know, I was on Merrow Station when the reactor shields failed. Not the same as Horus. Not even close, probably. But I carried a man with no legs through three decks of coolant vapor, and he still died ten feet from the evac hatch. For years, I kept thinking if I’d run faster, if I’d wrapped the seal tighter, if I’d picked a different corridor, if I’d been younger, stronger, smarter, less scared, maybe he’d have made it.”
I keep my gaze on the dark passage ahead, but I listen.
Al’s voice roughens. “Then one day his sister found me. I thought she was gonna spit in my face. Hell, I was ready for it.Instead she thanked me because he didn’t die alone. Took me another decade to believe she meant it.”
“That is not the same.”
“No,” he says. “But guilt speaks every language.”
I turn away from him because his words land too close to wounds I do not show. “The east access needs checking.”
“Uh-huh. Run away with dignity, then.”
“I do not run.”
“Fine. Stomp away with emotional constipation.”
I leave before I decide whether throwing him into the runoff channel would count as elder abuse.
The east access climbs toward a maintenance grate near the old laundromat. The ladder groans beneath my weight, but it holds because I have replaced the worst bolts myself. Rainwater drips through the grate onto my hood before I lift it. The alley above is empty except for trash bins, broken synthglass, and a one-eyed cat that hisses at me with admirable confidence.
I step into the night.
Halo wraps around me in damp air, reflected neon, and the low human noise of people trying to survive without admitting how tired they are. Vedder City’s downtown towers glitter in the distance like another planet, their upper traffic lanes stacked seven high and streaming with elegant light. Here, the single hover lane only runs near the industrial road, and even that flickers with outages whenever the municipal grid decides poor districts can wait.
My boots splash through shallow puddles. Rain beads on my hood and slides down the scales at my jaw. The coat is too small in the shoulders, too short in the sleeves, and too thin for the coastal chill, but it hides enough of me to keep most people from crossing the street before they know why.
Most.
A pair of drunks outside Kesto’s pawn shop see me and immediately sober by half. One grabs the other’s sleeve and pulls him backward into a doorway. A woman unlocking a clinic door drops her keycard, curses under her breath, and does not bend to retrieve it until I pass. A patrol drone pivots its lens toward me, scans my face, flashes amber, then glides away because I have no active warrants on Novaria and looking dangerous is not yet illegal.
Give the city time.
I tell myself I am checking the vulnerable intersections. That is true. I tell myself the Poison Memories have been moving too close to the bakery. That is also true. I tell myself Evie’s smile has nothing to do with my route.
That is a lie so obvious even the Precursors would laugh.
