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“It’s more than observation.” Her tail wraps around her legs as she settles into a more comfortable position. “It’s recognition.”

That gets my attention. I look up from the panel, really seeing her for the first time since she arrived. “What do you mean?”

She meets my gaze steadily. “You think you’re the only one running from ghosts? The only one who’s watched someone they love die and couldn’t stop it?” A bitter smile twists her muzzle. “Welcome to the Brotherhood, Neon. We’re all damaged goods here.”

The revelation shouldn’t surprise me—I’ve seen enough of the galaxy to know trauma isn’t exactly rare—but somehow, coming from Zara, it feels significant. She’s always seemed so composed, so certain of her place in the universe.

“Who did you lose?” I ask before I can think better of it.

Her ears flatten briefly before she consciously relaxes them. “My mate. During the Orion Wars. We were running supplies through the Ceres Blockade when the Eclipse intercepted us.” Her voice remains even, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her claws extend slightly into her palms. “They gave us a choice—surrender our cargo or die fighting. My mate chose option three.”

“Which was?”

“She sent me to an escape pod while she piloted our ship into their command vessel.” Zara’s eyes unfocus slightly, seeing something beyond the dimly lit maintenance corridor. “The explosion took out three Corsairian ships and bought enough time for the refugee transport we were protecting to reach safety.”

“She sounds brave,” I offer, unsure what else to say.

“She was stupid.” The words come sharp and sudden, surprising me. “Brave, yes. But also stupid and reckless and...” Zara’s voice catches. “And I would have done exactly the same thing in her position.”

The admission hangs between us, raw with a vulnerability I hadn’t expected from the composed first officer. My implants register the subtle changes in her breathing, the microscopic tremors in her hands that she’s trying to control.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.

“Don’t be.” She straightens, composure returning. “My point is, I understand running. I understand building walls. After Nexia died, I spent two years taking the most dangerous missions I could find, hoping each one would be my last.” Her gaze finds mine again, sharp with insight. “Sound familiar?”

Too familiar. I look away, uncomfortable with how easily she’s read me. “What changed?”

“Cirdox found me.” A genuine smile softens her features. “Or rather, I tried to rob him and nearly got myself killed in the process. He offered me a job instead of a funeral. Said if I was so determined to die, I might as well do it while accomplishing something worthwhile.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “That sounds like him.”

“He has a habit of collecting strays.” Her tail flicks with affection. “Broken people with useful skills and death wishes. He gives them purpose, a place to belong. A family.”

The word strikes a chord deep inside me, resonating with something I’ve denied myself for so long. Family. Not by blood, but by choice. By shared purpose and mutual protection.

“I never asked for a family,” I say quietly.

“None of us did.” Zara shrugs. “But here we are anyway.”

I return to the panel, needing the distraction of work while I process her words. The silence between us stretches, but it’s no longer uncomfortable. There’s an understanding now, a foundation laid that wasn’t there before.

“He’s getting worse, isn’t he?” I finally ask, the question that’s been weighing on me since I left Cirdox’s quarters. “The bond-sickness.”

Zara doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes. Faster than he’s letting on.”

“Is he going to die?” The words come out smaller than I intended, vulnerable in ways I haven’t allowed myself to be.

“That depends on you.” Her gaze is steady, non-judgmental. “The mate-bond isn’t something I fully understand—Kyvernian biology is complex—but I know it’s not just physical. It’s a choice. A commitment.”

“A trap,” I mutter, though the word lacks conviction.

“Is it?” She tilts her head. “Or is it just another word for connection? For letting someone matter enough that you’d risk pain for the chance at something real?”

I don’t answer, focusing instead on the final adjustments to the shield harmonics. My implants helpfully inform me that my cortisol levels are elevated, that my breathing has become slightly irregular—physical manifestations of the emotional turmoil I’m trying to ignore.

“He wouldn’t force this on you,” Zara continues when I remain silent. “Even if it kills him. That’s just who he is.”

“I know.” And I do know. That’s what makes this so complicated, so terrifying. Cirdox has given me every opportunity to walk away, even as the bond-sickness consumes him. He’s placed my freedom above his own survival, a concept so foreign to my experience that I still struggle to fully believe it.