Page 318 of Reaper Said Mine

The signing surface activates.

Theryki signs first.

Gant signs second.

Valez signs third, with the expression of a man swallowing glass dust.

Then the room looks at me.

For most of my life, I believed power meant taking what others refused to give. Ships. Food. Territory. Fear. Revenge. Guyver itself. I became very good at taking. The galaxy taught Reapers that lesson and then called us monsters for learning too well.

Now I stand before the agreement and feel the weight of every name on every casualty roll.

My parents.

My colony.

The dead at Rekk.

The children from the school ring.

The workers at Dakkor.

The civilians at Bravax.

The lives saved because I stopped chasing bait.

The lives lost because I learned that lesson late.

Ursa stands across the room, steady and pale and brave enough to make peace seem less embarrassing than pride.

I place my hand on the signing field.

The Accord records my mark.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then every screen in the room updates.

SIGNED.

The word spreads from Guyver Station to public relays, neutral feeds, government channels, merchant houses, refugee networks, and independent archives. No one cheers at first. The room is too exhausted for theater. Then somewhere outside the treaty hall, down in the corridor, a sound rises.

Not a roar.

A murmur.

People receiving the news.

People daring to breathe.

The sound moves through the station in waves. Relief does not sound like victory. It sounds fragile. Disbelieving. Human, Reaper, Alzhon, Vakutan, Grolgath, and Pi’Rell voices blending in corridors where days ago they ran from explosions. It sounds like people realizing the next alarm may not be death.

My throat tightens.

Skahar’s cane taps once beside me.

“Do not weep on the treaty,” he says. “It may void something.”