Page 21 of Alien Assassin's Heir

TARGET: DESMOND, LUNA

ACCESS LEVEL: PRIVATE…

LIQUIDATING LOOSE ENDS…

My hands go numb.

There’s more. A lot more. But the encryption holds on tight.

And maybe that’s a mercy.

I slam the pad shut and press it to my chest, curling in on myself like a child.

He used me. Lied to me. Gave meSolie.

And still… I love him.

What does that make me?

The sky’s bleeding again.

That’s what I always think when Arkosh’s twin suns dip toward the jagged horizon, bleeding out into this burnt-orange smear across the atmosphere like an open wound. The clouds hang heavy, tinged copper and violet, shadows stretching long and strange over the cracked walkways that line the outer dome of Wildwood. Even the air smells different this time of day—sour ozone, dust, and the faint spice of hoverfuel from the evening convoy returns.

I keep my eyes down as I walk. I don’t want to see anyone. Don’t want anyone seeing me.

It’s been three days since I opened that file. Since I saw the wordinfiltration. Since I tasted bile rising in my throat like acid and couldn’t make it stop. Three days since I told myself I wouldn’t cry over Kraj anymore.

But here I am, still dragging my heart behind me like a broken hovercart.

The path home winds through one of the side alleys, the kind lined with too many recycle bins and not enough light. I take the shortcut every day, but today I pause at the end of it. My eyes catch a flash of color—a shape—on the stoop outside my apartment.

I stop.

Stare.

A bouquet.

Just sitting there. Leaning casually against the metal doorframe like it belongs.

They’re desert blooms—resilient little bastards that grow between the cracks of old refinery lines and abandoned shuttle yards. Wild colors. Red and yellow with scorched-black tips, soft petals folded like little fists. Some still dusted with powdery grit. No ribbon, no note.

Just the flowers.

My throat closes.

I know who left them.

Of course I know.

I shouldn’t feel anything. Shouldn’t feel this tight flutter in my chest or the way my breath hitches like a skipped record. I shouldn’t think it’s sweet. Or sad. Or beautiful.

But gods help me—I do.

I scoop them up with shaking hands and glance down the street.

No one’s there.

No shadow lurking behind the auto-cleaner depot. No hulking figure in the alleyway like a bad memory made flesh.