The world came back in pieces.

  A pressurized hiss cut through the quiet, followed by the low hum of machinery and the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor syncing to my pulse. Cold mist curled over my skin, evaporating under the dim glow of the cryo bay lights.

  I breathed in. Slow. Steady. No restraints this time. No condescending asshole, no golden-armored monster, no birthgiver standing over me.

  For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t waking up to a shit show.

  My fingers flexed, sluggish from stasis. Blood flow tingled beneath my skin as my legs twitched. No dizziness. No nausea. Either my body had finally adapted to cryo, or Jericho had made adjustments while I was under.

  The thought made my stomach twist.

  A soft chime echoed overhead.

  "Rise and shine, my Princess."

  I exhaled through my nose. Not this shit again.

  "I'm not your fucking princess." My voice came out rough, throat dry from the cryo cycle.

  Jericho chuckled, smooth and clinical. "Of course you are. But I’ll let you pretend otherwise for now."

  His tone was the same as always—cold but affectionate in a way that unsettled me. A father who loved his creation but remained distant. A king watching his heir from afar.

  I ignored him.

  The cryo pod’s canopy lifted, dispersing the last of the mist. I sat up, rolling my shoulders as the stiffness settled into my muscles.

  Feet hit cold metal. Goosebumps rose, but I barely reacted. The sensation was grounding. Real. Barefoot, I flexed my toes against the smooth surface, letting the chill seep into my bones. My damp hair clung to my neck, white strands hanging in uneven waves. I raked my fingers through the tangles, combing them back.

  "June 4th, 2520." Jericho’s voice filled the chamber. "No complications detected. Vital signs stable."

  I blinked, the date settling in my head. I was supposed to wake up in May. The Hemlock incident delayed the cycle. Then the Rue situation wrecked it completely. Team C’s time had been cut short to compensate, shifting everything forward to keep us as close to schedule as possible.

  Nine months in cryo. Awake for a year and a half before that, with only a three-month break in between. The longest I’d been conscious since joining the rotation was that first cycle.

  And now? This was it. The new schedule. From now on, I wake up every year on June 4th. Three months awake. Nine months frozen. Over and over, for a century, until we reach Haven.

  A remarkably smooth transition," Jericho mused. "No screaming this time. No begging. Almost... peaceful.

  "Yeah, well, that’s what happens when I put myself under," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "Not when my dad or my brother are the ones throwing me in the fucking icebox."

  I stood, stretching out the last of the stiffness. My bodysuit hung neatly on the rack nearby—Jericho always had it ready, anticipating my discomfort.

  I reached for it but hesitated. The cold air licked at my exposed skin. For a moment, I let it.

  For once, waking up felt normal. And that was the most suspicious part.

  The others were stirring now.

  Cryo pods hissed open, mist spilling across the floor. The usual disorientation lingered—shaky limbs, groggy movements, muttered curses as joints popped back into place. The slow process of coming back to life.

  Except for one thing.

  Garin’s pod would never open again.

  Out of instinct, I glanced toward it, expecting to see him rubbing the sleep from his eyes, already preparing to argue with Vega about something pointless.

  But the space was empty.

  The air felt too still.

  Warren stood near the command console, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the fact he’d just come out of cryo himself. The man never looked like he slept.

  "Get prepped," he ordered, voice carrying over the hum of machinery.

  I barely paid attention as he spoke with Blackwell and his lieutenant, Rylan. She stood at his side, dark-skinned and striking, a quiet presence compared to Blackwell’s usual grumbling. Their conversation with Warren was brisk, efficient—updates on the ship, status reports.

  “Reid’s still in a coma,” Blackwell said, rubbing the back of his neck. “No new contact with the Rue. Fuel reserves stable. Everything’s as it should be.”

  As it should be? The words almost made me laugh. My fingers curled against the table’s edge, frustration gnawing at me. Reid was still trapped in that silent prison of his own body, still unresponsive. Still forgotten. Whenever I thought of him lying there, eyes closed, motionless, something in my chest twisted tight. I’d give anything to switch places with him. If I could trade something—anything—to wake him up, I would. But according to Blackwell, that was just business as usual.

  To my right, Ashly rattled off anxious chatter to Holt. Garin. They whispered his name like he was still relevant, like he deserved their pity. A dull heat bloomed in my gut, that same flicker of bitterness I couldn’t snuff out. He’s dead—I made sure of that—and despite everything he did, she still gives a damn. Meanwhile, Reid—someone who actually mattered—lay comatose, practically forgotten.

  Blackwell kept talking—diagnostics, supply readouts... I barely heard him. Reid’s still in a coma. No matter how many times I heard it, it scraped something raw inside me. And Ashly’s quiet little whimpers over Garin only made it worse—like a knife twisting deeper. We lost them both, but at least Reid was worth missing.

  I gritted my teeth, shoving the knot in my chest deeper. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do for Reid right now—no miracle fix. But if he ever wakes, I’d gladly choke on every regret just to see him open his eyes again. Until then, all I could do was pretend this was normal. That everything’s as it should be.

  Ashly kept rambling, her words clawing at the silence, trying to fill the space he left behind. Holt, as always, remained unreadable. He nodded occasionally, offering small affirmations but saying little.

  Yates moved between us, quick and methodical, performing medical scans with the kind of sharp, detached focus that meant she’d been woken first. Already alert. Already analyzing.

  Then my ears caught a familiar grumble—Blackwell, muttering something about me stealing his booze.

  I flicked a glance toward him, catching the bitter look he shot me before turning to Warren.

  "Knight’s still up in Lab 3," Blackwell added, voice thick with disdain. "Doing God knows what."

  His eyes flickered toward me again.

  I held his gaze, silent.

  A heartbeat passed.

  Then he ended the conversation and strode off, leaving Vega to handle the rest.

  She didn’t waste time. She stepped forward, data pad in hand, her expression cool, professional.

  NEW DUTY ROTATION – ISSUED BY: LT. VEGA

  I pulled my gaze away from the datapad, the weight of the schedule settling in my chest.

  Jimmy.

  Vega had paired me with him for engineering support—handling routine inspections, hull integrity scans, reactor diagnostics. Things Garin used to do in Reid’s place.

  I clenched my jaw.

  No one said it, but I knew what this was. The crew was moving on—filling the gaps left by Garin’s death and Reid’s coma, rearranging roles like pieces on a board after someone overturned the game. Normally, we’d wake a new team from cryo to replace them, but with Dad—and by extension, Jericho—running the show, that was pointless.

  Jericho didn’t need a head scientist. It didn’t need engineers. It didn’t need us. The ship ran itself now, and whether it was still following protocol or something else, I wasn’t sure. What had once been a sophisticated AI had become something more—something alive. Yet we kept going through the motions, pretending our roles mattered.

  Maybe Jericho was just humoring us. Or maybe he was. My father, still watching. Still pulling the strings.

  Jimmy, though—he never looked at me the same after Garin’s death. Not that he ever really had before. He’d just followed Garin’s lead, echoing the same dismissive jabs whenever they needed a united front against me. He was never as nasty, but he stuck to Garin’s side like a loyal shadow.

  And now? With no Garin or Reid. Jimmy was as adrift as the rest of us—maybe more. For all his tough-guy attitude, he looked like a kid who’d had the floor ripped out from under him. But whenever he glanced my way, I saw it: that heavy, uncertain stare, like he’d heard the rumors and believed every single one of them.

  I exhaled slowly, a quiet hiss through my nose, and shoved my datapad into my belt. Let the pieces move however they wanted. Jericho had outgrown its need for human players—and I was the one who’d killed Garin. If Jimmy and the others resented me for it, if they feared me? Fine. It wouldn’t change the fact that none of us really knew where we stood anymore.

  My father’s will, overshadowing us all. Sure, the board reset... but we were all pawns, whether we admitted it or not.

  Didn’t matter. There was work to do.

  The engineering deck was quiet, the steady hum of Jericho’s systems thrumming beneath my feet. The scent of coolant lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of recycled oxygen. The walls pulsed softly with energy, the ship breathing around us.

  Jimmy was already there, crouched beside an open panel, his tool kit sprawled out next to him. He didn’t look up when I approached, just kept his focus on the exposed wiring, like he was waiting for me to say something first. When I didn’t, he finally spoke.

  "Guess we’re stuck with each other, huh?" His voice was lighter than usual, but there was an edge to it—something uneasy, something that made it clear this wasn’t just another work rotation.

  "I guess so," I muttered.

  I knelt beside him, reaching for the diagnostics panel, fingers brushing over the screen as numbers flickered to life. The reactor’s readings were stable, the plasma field operating at full efficiency. Everything was fine. Routine.

  Unlike this conversation.

  Then—

  Survival. Progress. The future. The weak will be left to die while the strong will live on forever.

  The whisper cut in, curling around the edges of my thoughts like static from a faulty comms line. My father’s voice. Familiar. Unrelenting.

  You will take humanity beyond death. Homo immortalis—through your womb.

  My jaw tightened, fingers tapping against the screen.

  You disrespect your father, whore. You cannot ignore his genius. Do you not know what he sacrificed for you?

  I forced my breath steady. That voice was familiar, way too familiar.

  Jimmy shifted beside me, clearing his throat. "Look, about Garin—"

  "Not now, Jimmy." The words came sharp, automatic. I barely registered saying them.

  He let out a quiet scoff but didn’t push it.

  The numbers on the diagnostics flickered. The readout was complex—until it wasn’t.

  The calculations, the electrical paths, the reactor’s cooling efficiency—I understood all of it instantly. No hesitation. No second-guessing. And that’s what scared me. The knowledge wasn’t just mine. It felt... given. No—taken.

  It all just... clicked.

  Like I had done this a thousand times before.

  My fingers hovered over the console, then moved on their own, inputting adjustments, recalibrating the system without thought.

  What the fuck. This isn't normal.

  The weight of the wrench in my hand felt different too—familiar, natural. I shifted my grip, and muscle memory kicked in, like my body already knew how to use it better than I ever had before.

  Subtle. But undeniable. My mind was running sharper, processing calculations at a speed I couldn’t explain. The work felt effortless, fluid, like the knowledge had always been there, buried beneath my skin.

  Like I had centuries of experience.

  I swallowed, pulse quickening.

  I reached for the wrench—then—

  Took you long enough to notice, cunt.

  The whisper cut through my thoughts like a knife.

  Garin.

  I gritted my teeth and kept working, forcing my focus onto the console, onto the routine motions of the job. The hum of the ship, the flicker of the readout, the steady rhythm of my hands—normal. Familiar. Something I could control.

  The Dragon Core was running at 98.6% efficiency. A stable reading. The caged singularity at its heart thrived on hydrogen consumption, feeding its plasma field to sustain the controlled collapse. A miracle of engineering, balanced on the knife’s edge of annihilation.

  One miscalculation, and the black hole would rip free.

  A self-sustaining energy source, Jericho’s greatest asset—and its greatest threat.

  Jimmy shifted beside me again. "Sol, I know I was an ass to you before." His voice was quieter this time, like he was feeling out the words as he spoke. "I just... I didn’t think for myself much back then." A pause. "Not really sure if I’m doing any better now."

  I didn’t look at him. "You don’t have to pretend you liked me, Jimmy."

  A short, awkward laugh. "Yeah, well... I didn’t, not really." He exhaled, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the panel. "But I don’t think I had a real reason, either. Just easier to follow his lead."

  That's all you ever did, Jimmy. Follow. Even now, you're just looking for someone new to tell you what to think.

  I locked my jaw, ignoring it.

  Jimmy let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "We were both in Reid’s room a lot before we went back under."

  That caught me off guard.

  I blinked, glancing at him.

  He wasn’t looking at me, just staring at the panel in front of him, brows furrowed like he was working through something in his head. "Before cryo, I mean. We were both there. Talking to him. Waiting." He tapped his fingers against the console. "You and me—we don’t have much in common, but we had that."

  Oh, that’s sweet. Garin’s voice curled into something sharp. Touching, really. Sitting at his bedside like a couple of lost dogs hoping for scraps of comfort. Did you whisper to him, too? Tell him all your regrets? Or just sit there in silence and let the guilt rot you from the inside?

  My fingers twitched.

  I clenched my jaw. Garin’s voice was stronger now, pressing against my thoughts like he was there. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

  Jimmy kept talking. "I used to think Garin had it all figured out. That he was the smartest guy on the ship, that he knew what was best. But after Hemlock, after—" He hesitated. "I don’t know. Maybe I started thinking for myself."

  Garin let out a low chuckle.

  Now that’s a lie. You’re not thinking, Jimmy. You’re just scared. You need someone to follow. You’re looking at her now, aren’t you? Wondering if she’ll be your new leader.

  I forced myself to stay focused on my work. Forced my hands to keep moving, keep tightening the bolts, keep recalibrating the system.

  The Dragon Core intake was steady. The hydrogen siphons had locked into alignment. Fuel balance was holding.

  We weren’t in danger.

  Not yet.

  Jimmy shook his head. "I was a dick to you. I know that. Maybe I thought it was easier to go along with Garin than to actually... I dunno, think. And now he’s gone. And Reid—" His jaw tightened. "Reid’s still in that damn bed. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do now."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  What do you think, Whore? Should we tell him? Let him in on the joke? Let him know exactly why I’m not here?

  I exhaled slowly, setting down my wrench. "Just figure it out."

  Jimmy snorted. "That easy, huh?"

  I shrugged. "No. But it’s all you can do."

  Jimmy was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Maybe."

  We went back to work, this time moving in rhythm, passing tools without needing to ask, catching the problem spots before they fully registered. The tension that had been there before—awkward, uncertain—wasn’t entirely gone, but it had shifted. Softer now. Less of a wall between us.

  Garin’s voice had gone quiet.

  For now.

  Eventually, Jimmy exhaled. "I don’t know what to make of you, Sol," he admitted. "But I don’t think you’re what Garin said you were."

  Something twisted in my chest, something too close to guilt. If you knew the truth, Jimmy, you wouldn’t be saying that.

  I rolled my shoulders. "Just don’t expect me to hold your hand through this job."

  Jimmy snorted. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

  The silence that followed wasn’t so heavy.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I thought.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur.

  I went to see Reid. He looked… weak. Paler than before, his frame thinner, muscles atrophied from nearly eleven months in bed. His chest rose and fell in shallow, steady breaths, the machines beside him humming in quiet monotony.

  Yates had done her best to keep his body stable, but without movement, without sunlight or real food, it was wearing on him. The strongest man I knew reduced to this fragile, unmoving thing.

  We still didn’t know why he wouldn’t wake up.

  Yates had theories—something about neural pathways. “Promising ideas,” she called them, but I could see the uncertainty in her face, the weight in her voice. She was running tests, looking for answers, but there were no guarantees. Even still, without nanites or the miracle cure that was Phoenix, we didn’t know how long it would take.

  Or if he’d wake up at all.

  I clenched my jaw, watching the steady flicker of the heart monitor. If I could heal him, I would.

  But Phoenix wasn’t a cure. Not for him. Not for anyone.

  The thought sat heavy in my chest as I left the med bay.

  I didn’t go to my quarters. Didn’t sleep. Instead, I found myself in Lab 2. My workshop.

  The overhead lights cast harsh shadows against the metal walls, the scent of scorched plating and synthetic oil thick in the air. The workbench was cluttered—disassembled servos, exposed wiring, the skeletal frame of an unfinished gauntlet. A bottle of whiskey sat next to my toolkit, half-empty already, but I didn’t care. The alcohol settled in my veins, dulling the edges of my thoughts. Enough to keep me moving.

  I had spent months refining it—Project Minotaur. The only thing that could put me on even footing with the Royal Guard. The enhanced combat frame integrated into my pressure suit, built to augment speed, reflexes, and raw strength.

  Lion fought like a force of nature, a titan among men. Their bodies were engineered for war. My father had shaped them into something more. And God knew how dangerous the Rue really were.

  The suit had to be perfect—every piece tailored to my frame, every adjustment made for efficiency and comfort. But there was always one issue I couldn’t exactly engineer away.

  My chest.

  Fucking Knight. That bitch just had to make me voluptuous—like that was essential to whatever grand plan she and my father had cooked up. Not that I cared about the look of it—I didn’t… not anymore—but fitting armor around it was a nightmare. Too tight, and I couldn’t breathe. Too loose, and it threw off my balance. I’d spent longer than I’d ever admit adjusting the plating, cursing Knight every step of the way, making sure it moved with me instead of against me.

  Now, finally, it did.

  So I was here, applying everything I’d learned from Wolf, testing my new sword.

  I refused to be less than them.

  The plating had been reforged—lighter, denser, the servos recalibrated to handle Phoenix’s regenerative strain. The neural interface was almost seamless, responding in real-time without lag. Plasma claws slid into place with mechanical precision, then retracted at a flick of my wrist. Brutal, efficient—designed for survival.

  Not enough. Not yet.

  "You grip the blade too tightly. The plasma current will adjust to your movements—let it flow."

  I exhaled, flexing my fingers, feeling the hilt shift in my grasp. The plasma sword hissed to life, a blade of raw energy flickering into form. It burned bright—hot enough to carve through steel, hot enough to cleanse.

  Like fire. Like a star burning itself out just to be reborn.

  Like me.

  Sol. A name my father chose. A promise. A curse.

  Control.

  That’s what this was about. I’d been powerless too many times. Watching Reid’s motionless body, helpless. Facing Voss. Watching the people around me die while I survived. Not anymore.

  I adjusted my stance, letting the sword balance itself, the plasma flow stabilizing with the movement. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was an extension of my will.

  "Your combat instincts have improved."

  I scoffed, taking a swig from the bottle beside me before setting it down. “Yeah, well. That’s what happens when everyone wants me dead.”

  "And when you keep trying to get yourself killed."

  I didn’t disagree.

  Instead, I activated the forearm mechanisms, watching as the plasma claws slid out from my left hand while my right gripped the sword. One short-range and savage, built for close-quarters brutality; the other long and precise, extending my reach for future duels. Together, they balanced instinct with discipline—one for tearing through anything that got too close, the other for controlling the fight before it ever reached that point.

  I shifted my stance, testing the weight distribution. The claws let me close the gap, the sword dictated the flow. If I was going to stand against the Royal Guard—or whatever horrors the Rue were hiding—I needed both. One to kill up close. The other to end the fight before it ever got that far.

  More drones dropped from the ceiling, their metal limbs unfolding with mechanical precision, eyes flickering to life in synchronized menace. I exhaled, the hum of the blade vibrating through my bones. Weapons built for someone else, reforged in my hands. I surged forward, carving through them like cutting through air, plasma claws rending armor while my blade severed limbs before they could counter.

  The suit’s framework had been fine-tuned—sleek, responsive, built to move with me rather than against me. The servos synced effortlessly, adapting to each shift in stance, while the reinforced plating dispersed impact without slowing me down. It wasn’t just armor anymore; it was an extension of me, honed for speed, endurance, and survival.

  The plasma shields had been upgraded too—more efficient, using less power while lasting longer. I’d refined the recharge cycles, ensuring they wouldn’t drain the suit’s reserves too fast. If I was going to stand against the Royal Guard, against whatever the Rue were truly capable of, I needed every advantage I could get.

  "Again." I rasped.

  "Biomass reserves are low. You are burning through energy faster than your body can replenish. You require food and rest."

  I clenched my jaw. Valicar wasn’t wrong. The hunger gnawed at me, deep and aching, but I ignored it. I always did.

  I reached for the whiskey instead, tipping the bottle back, letting the burn chase away the exhaustion. It wouldn’t fix the problem, but it was easier.

  The plasma blade hissed out of existence.

  I strapped the sword to my back, locking the plating into place. The suit wasn’t done. I was. I could feel it—my body was at its limit, but the armor I built had outlasted me. That should have bothered me. Instead, it made me proud.

  With a sigh, I grabbed a few protein bars from the supply crate, unwrapped one with my razor-sharp teeth, and scarfed it down. The first few bites were dry as hell, but my body didn’t care—it was starving. I barely tasted the next before it was gone, then the next. It wasn’t enough, just fuel to keep me moving.

  The craving for fresh meat and blood still lingered, curling at the edges of my hunger. But it could wait. For now.

  My tongue flicked over my teeth, sharp enough to draw blood. The taste hit my senses, rich and metallic, and the hunger roared in response. I have to drown it.

  The cargo bay was quiet when I got there, just the usual hum of Jericho’s systems and the low flicker of emergency lighting.

  I moved between the aisles, stepping over loose cables and the occasional misplaced tool, scanning the storage labels as I walked. Third level. Section five. One of Blackwell’s stashes I had found.

  I stopped just short of the marked crate, running my fingers along the reinforced seal. It should have felt like a victory. A well-earned indulgence.

  But lately, everything felt like something was pressing back.

  A shift in the dim light caught my attention.

  I tensed, breath catching—but it was just me.

  Just the ghost of my own image reflected in the glossy surface of a storage panel. White hair. Red and blue eyes.

  And yet, for a second—just long enough to make my stomach turn—my reflection didn’t match me. It held. A knowing, deliberate smile. Not an illusion. Not a trick of the light. I was looking at myself—but something else was looking back.

  I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. Get a grip, Sol.

  A voice broke the quiet.

  "Didn’t peg you for a morning person."

  I glanced up. Warren stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching me.

  I huffed, prying open the crate. "Didn’t peg you for one either."

  He stepped closer, gaze flicking over the supplies. "Never really got the hang of sleeping on schedule."

  I snorted. "Would explain why you always look like shit."

  A flicker of something—almost amusement—crossed his face. "Says Sleeping Beauty herself. You spent fifty years napping, and you still wake up looking like a porcelain doll. Some of us aren’t that lucky."

  I smirked, prying open the crate. "Guess some legends hold up better than others."

  The seal released with a hiss, and I reached inside, pulling out a dark glass bottle. I turned it in my hands, scanning the label. Blackwell had good taste—expensive, aged, the kind of thing that got smuggled out of dying empires.

  I took a sip. The burn hit smooth. Worth it.

  Warren watched me, expression unreadable.

  “That’s the cheap stuff,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You got something better?”

  He smirked, leaning back against a stack of cargo containers. “Hidden further in the bay. Captain’s privilege.”

  That actually surprised me. Warren wasn’t the type to offer information freely—especially not to me. I studied him, trying to gauge if this was a test, a warning, or an invitation.

  He must have caught my hesitation because he added, “I know about Reid’s booze, too.” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “I let it be. Keeps morale high.”

  I exhaled, rolling the bottle between my hands. “And Blackwell?”

  Warren scoffed, leaning back against a crate. “Blackwell thinks he’s got more control over this ship as leader of D Team than he really does. Truth is, me and Young have been dipping into his reserves for years. Your father letting him take up precious cargo space for it was ridiculous, but hey, might as well take advantage.” He smirked. “Not that he knows. Or if he does, he’s too stubborn to admit it. The greedy bastard is almost as prideful as Rojas—just with less to show for it.”

  “Well…” I smirked, tilting the bottle slightly. “I am a captain now. No better time to enjoy the privileges.”

  A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. That stash was meant for Haven—he shouldn't find out for at least a hundred years. Though he’s already been bitching about the ones you’ve found.” He shrugged. “But really, what’s he gonna do? Hell, what can any of us do?”

  That earned a short laugh. “True. But still, good to know.”

  We drank in mutual understanding, the kind that didn’t need words. Not quite trust—but something close enough.

  Then, just as Warren turned to leave, he muttered, “Fourth level, section seventeen.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Blackwell’s stash,” Warren repeated, tone casual. “Enough to last a hundred years.”

  I huffed a quiet laugh. “And you’re telling me this why?”

  Warren glanced back at me, lips twitching in something almost like a smirk. “Because I know you’ll find it anyway.”

  Then he was gone.

  I stayed in the cargo bay a little longer, listening to the low hum of the ship, the faintest vibration of warp prep rattling through the crates around me.

  The colors started bleeding in—those unnatural hues I could see now. The spectrum beyond human limits. Phoenix’s gift. Or curse.

  I took a breath.

  Then turned and left.

  Later, after looting Blackwell's hidden stash for booze, I found Ashly on the observation deck. She was perched on the metal ledge, a bottle cradled in her hands, eyes distant as she stared at the stars.

  “Sol! Get over here, you’re the perfect drinking buddy,” she called out, her usual nervousness stripped away by whatever she’d already knocked back. Without looking, she nudged a second bottle toward me.

  I grabbed it, twisting the cap off with a smirk. “Hell yeah, thanks, Ash.”

  She huffed a quiet laugh, taking another swig of her own. I settled beside her, the cold metal pressing against my legs as we stared out into the void, drinking in silence.

  Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t heavy. Just there.

  Ashly took another long sip. When she lowered the bottle, her fingers fidgeted against the glass. “Garin won’t need my rations anymore,” she muttered, half to herself.

  I glanced at her. The way she said it—it wasn’t bitter, just… empty. The way grief sometimes was, not fresh but worn, rubbed raw like an old wound that never quite healed.

  “He was always a bully to me,” she added, swirling the bottle in her hands. “You know that, right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “But I still miss him.” Her voice cracked just slightly, and she huffed out a breath, shaking her head. “And that makes me a fucking idiot.”

  “No.” I leaned back against the railing, stretching out my legs. “It makes you a good person.”

  Ashly let out a soft, humorless laugh. “No. I’m a coward.” She turned her head, meeting my eyes for the first time that night. Her pupils were dilated, her face flushed from drinking too fast. “You’re the good person, Sol.”

  I stiffened, already shaking my head, but she cut me off.

  “After everything Garin said about you, he was wrong. I saw what Knight did to you. What he did to you. And I still miss him, but…” She exhaled sharply, tilting the bottle against her lips, taking another swig before continuing. "I watched it happen, Sol. I watched them do it. And I still did nothing. After Wilks. After you. After everything. I told myself I wasn’t part of it—but silence is the same as a yes, isn’t it?"

  I stayed quiet, letting her talk.

  Ashly rubbed at her temple like she was trying to press the memories away. “I left you that note,” she admitted. “The first night you woke up. The one with the old crew photo.”

  I remembered. A picture of the original science team. Knight’s face scratched out.

  “Maybe I thought it’d be enough,” she muttered. “Maybe I thought you’d take the hint and let it go.” She gave a weak chuckle. “But you kept digging. And you found the truth.”

  I stared at the floor, feeling the weight of those words settle into my chest. Maybe she was right. Maybe I should have let it go.

  If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be here, sitting on this ship, drowning in the aftermath. Maybe my father wouldn’t have merged with Jericho. Maybe Chimera would have never been completed. Maybe Phoenix wouldn’t have been a failure.

  Maybe I wouldn’t be dealing with the consequences of knowing exactly what I am.

  I didn’t gain anything by knowing the truth—just suffering.

  I should have played dumb. Taken the out Warren gave me. Stayed in my lane, followed orders. Instead, I dug. And now I was a captain in name, a ruler in practice. Unchallenged authority, according to my father—according to Jericho. But I doubted it was that simple.

  How the fuck could I be a good person when I killed Garin?

  I swallowed, gripping the bottle a little tighter. Ashly didn’t know. No one knew. As far as the crew was concerned, it was a suicide. My father—or Jericho—had seen to that. Covered it up. Buried the truth. And the worst part?

  I didn’t even feel bad about it.

  That’s what ate at me. Not the killing itself. Not the fact that I ended his life.

  But the fact that I felt nothing about it.

  I took another drink, the alcohol burning as it slid down my throat. The silence between us stretched.

  Then, finally, I muttered, “I’m barely human, Ashly.” The words sat heavy, like lead in my mouth. “Thank you for saying I’m a good person, but the truth is… I’m a fucking monster.”

  Ashly exhaled, rubbing at her eyes. “Yeah, well.” She took another sip—too big, the kind that burned. “Aren’t we all?”

  I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “You’re drunk.”

  She blinked at me like she had to process the words, then snorted. “Very. And you’re… blurry. Or maybe I am.” She frowned at the bottle like it had personally betrayed her, then shrugged and took another sip.

  I stood, finishing off my drink before setting the empty bottle down. Ashly didn’t try to stop me as I turned to leave, just gave me a small, lopsided smile.

  “Hey, Sol?”

  I glanced back.

  Ashly’s expression sobered just slightly, something softer in her voice. “For what it’s worth… I think you want to be a good person... and that's what counts.”

  I swallowed, nodded once, then stepped away.

  As I walked back through the empty halls, her words lingered.

  Am I a good person? Or just a monster they haven’t seen clearly yet?

  I thought back to what Ashly had said—how I was good despite who raised me. Despite my father.

  And for the first time in a long time, I wondered:

  Where did my morality even come from?

  Hours later, I sat in my quarters, bottle in hand, the sharp burn of alcohol tracing down my throat. Blackwell’s stash—stolen, but worth it. The heat settled in my stomach, numbing the weight of the day, the weight of everything.

  I barely registered the door chime before it hissed open.

  “Jesus, Yates,” I muttered, tilting my head back against the wall. “You ever hear of knocking?”

  She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but not exactly subtle. The soft hum of the med scanner in her hand made my stomach twist.

  “Didn’t realize I needed permission to check on the crew,” she said. “Especially when one of them is tearing through our alcohol supply like it’s rations.”

  I let out a slow exhale through my nose. “You here as the doctor or the shrink?”

  Yates stepped inside, letting the door slide shut behind her. “Whichever one you’ll actually listen to.”

  I scoffed, shaking my head. “Then you wasted your time.”

  She sighed, rubbing her temple like she was already tired of this conversation. “Look, I get it. You’ve been through hell. But you can’t keep acting like this isn’t a problem.”

  I lifted the bottle, swirled the liquid inside. “Funny. Feels like a solution to me.”

  “Yeah?” Her voice was sharper now, edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “And what about the crew? What happens when they start seeing you like this? You think they’re not already watching? That they don’t notice?”

  I gritted my teeth. “They can mind their own damn business.”

  “That’s not how this works, Sol,” she shot back. “You’re a captain now. People look at you for stability, whether you like it or not. And if they see you spiraling, what do you think that does to them?”

  Something in my chest tightened—hatefully, resentfully—because she was right. But I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

  I snorted, taking another sip. “Then maybe they should find a better role model.”

  Yates watched me for a long moment, then exhaled, shaking her head. “You don’t have to talk to me,” she said, voice softer now. “But sooner or later, you’re gonna have to talk to someone. Otherwise, you’re not making it to Haven.”

  I scoffed. “Yeah? We’ll see.”

  She stared at me like she wanted to say more, but eventually just turned, stepping toward the door.

  Just before it slid shut behind her, she muttered, “For what it’s worth, I’m still here when you’re ready.”

  The room was too quiet after that.

  The exhaustion pressed in, blurring the edges of my thoughts.

  I should sleep.

  The bottle slipped from my fingers, rolling across the floor with a dull clink.

  I closed my eyes.

  The darkness came quick.

  Not the deep, drowning kind—just a slow unraveling, a gentle pull at the edges of awareness. Sleep came in fragments, flickering in and out, slipping between cracks I didn’t remember making.

  The hum of the ship faded.

  The weight of my body vanished.

  And then, as always, the whispers began.

  At first, they were just murmurs, curling low at the base of my skull, the kind of sound that wasn’t quite there but still managed to press against my thoughts.

  Then, something else. Something heavier.

  A presence.

  Not my father’s. Not Garin’s. Not the other's.

  Something older.

  I tried to move, but there was no body to move. Just the sensation of watching, listening—being present in a space that didn’t exist.

  The darkness shifted, rippling like disturbed water.

  Footsteps.

  Slow. Deliberate.

  I turned—if turning was even possible—and then I saw him.

  At first, I thought it was Lion.

  But no. That wasn’t right.

  The figure that stepped forward was familiar in a way that made my stomach twist. Tall, lean, draped in layered robes I hadn’t seen in—how long? He moved with that same quiet, measured grace I had once admired, his stillness sharp, searching. Studying me. Waiting. His face, worn by time but sharp as ever, held something unreadable.

  I knew him.

  But how?

  Then his voice—steady, cutting through the fog in my mind.

  "He ripped me from your mind, Sol. Buried me. But you can still feel it, can’t you? The gaps. The pieces that never quite fit."

  The name surfaced before I could stop it, dragging memories in its wake.

  The streets of a dying Earth. The stench—shit, piss, pollution, and rot. Smog so thick it swallowed the sun, pressing down like a second sky. Starving people huddled in alleys, their eyes hollow, their voices long since lost to despair. And behind it all, looming above the filth like a goddamn monolith—Voss Tower.

  A man stood beside me, his voice steady, unraveling knowledge I barely understood but clung to like a lifeline.

  The fragments hit like glass breaking in reverse—shards snapping back into place, forming something almost whole.

  Altis.

  The first person outside my father’s world who made me feel real. More than an experiment. More than a piece of someone else’s plan. He had taught me about America before the oligarchs. Before the wars. Before the planet was choked to death and left to rot. He spoke of freedom, of democracy—not as myths, but as things that had existed. Things that mattered.

  A world before Julian Voss.

  And now, he was here.

  The man who taught me not to be a monster. The only person who had ever shown me right from wrong. My teacher. My father’s teacher. Given extended life, like the captains. Given time he could have used to make a difference.

  Until my father had him executed.

  He studied me as he always had, but something had changed. There was a weight in his eyes. A quiet, knowing sadness.

  "You remember." Not a question. A statement.

  I swallowed, throat tight. "Yeah," I said hoarsely. "I remember now."

  Altis nodded, slow and deliberate. "Then you understand why I’m here."

  I didn’t. Not fully. But I felt it pressing at the edges of my mind—something I was supposed to know, something stolen from me.

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Your father erased me from your life, Sol. Took me from you like I was never there. But no matter what he stripped from your memories, no matter how much he tried to shape you into something else… he couldn’t take everything.”

  I swallowed, my throat tight.

  “You still remember what I taught you,” he said, softer now. “Even if you don’t know why.”

  The weight between us deepened, something pressing at the edges of my mind, just out of reach.

  Then, quieter—more certain—“Sol.” He exhaled, his voice steady. “There’s a truth about Julian Voss that even you were never meant to know.”

  The world lurched.

  The streets dissolved.

  A house. Middle-class. Modest. Lived-in, but fraying at the edges. The hum of the television droned in the background, a news anchor’s voice rattling off numbers—markets crashing, inflation rising, job losses at an all-time high.

  In a study, bills littered the desk—foreclosure notices, overdue payments, red ink slashing across the paper like open wounds. A clock ticked steadily on the wall, unbothered by the ruin unfolding beneath it.

  A boy stood in the doorway.

  Small. Frail. Silent.

  Inside, a man sat hunched at the desk, staring at nothing. His hands trembled as he loaded a single round into a revolver.

  Click.

  The boy didn’t move.

  Didn’t breathe.

  The man exhaled, slow and ragged. Fingers clenching the barrel, thumb tracing the worn metal like it held an answer.

  Then, without hesitation, he put the gun in his mouth.

  The boy took a step forward—just one.

  The man squeezed his eyes shut.

  Pulled the trigger.

  Boom.

  Blood. So much blood. Splattered across the desk, the walls, the peeling wallpaper. The chair rocked back, the body slumped forward, and the world went still.

  The boy didn’t scream.

  Didn’t cry.

  Just stood there, watching as his father sagged against the desk, mouth still open in a final, silent word that never came.

  Piercing blue eyes, unblinking. Cold.

  Then, he turned and walked away.