Page 45 of Alien Assassin's Heir

I want out. Out of the reports, out of the lies, out of the war that’s taken more from me than I can count. I want her. I want them. And if I have to fight the whole damn galaxy to keep them safe, I will.

But for now, I’m still tangled in the web. And the spider’s watching.

The suns diplow by the time I make my way back to her building. Arkosh’s twilight paints everything in bruised purples and burning orange, and the air tastes like grit and ozone. I stand at the bottom of her stairwell for longer than I should, my boots heavy, my claws flexing restlessly at my sides. Going backfeels dangerous, like stepping into a firefight without armor. And yet my feet move anyway.

Luna opens the door before I even knock. She’s wearing a faded tunic, hair pulled back messily, cheeks flushed as though she’s been pacing. For a moment we just look at each other, the silence thick enough to drown in. Then she steps aside, voice low. “Come in.”

The smell hits me first. Real food. Not ration bricks or synth-protein sludge, but something warm and spiced—beans and herbs, maybe, with the faint tang of tomatoes. My stomach growls, traitorous, and she notices, one eyebrow twitching upward. “Don’t look so shocked. I can cook.”

I almost laugh. Instead, I follow her inside.

The apartment is small, cluttered with the evidence of a child’s world—stacked toys, crayon drawings tacked to the wall, a blanket fort half-collapsed near the corner. And there she is. Solie. Sitting cross-legged at the little table, swinging her feet against the chair leg as she hums to herself. She sees me and grins, wide and easy, like last night wasn’t the first time she’d ever laid eyes on me.

“Hi, mister!” she says brightly. “Mama said you’re having dinner with us!”

“Looks like I am,” I reply, lowering myself into the chair opposite her. The wood creaks under my weight, but holds. Barely.

She leans forward, eyes shining. “Do you have claws because you’re a superhero?”

I blink. “A superhero?”

“Uh-huh!” She wiggles her fingers dramatically. “Like in the vids! Mama says superheroes don’t exist, but I think maybe they do. Maybe you fight bad guys with your claws.”

Her mother coughs into her glass of water. “Solie?—”

I hold up a hand, hiding a smile. “Sometimes I fight bad guys, yeah. But I’m no superhero.”

Solie gasps. “You ARE one! You have shiny eyes and claws and you’re really tall. You’re like a dragon man!”

Luna mutters under her breath, “More like a pain in the?—”

I smirk at her.

Dinner is strange. Good, but strange. Solie chatters through half the meal, asking question after question, barely pausing to breathe between them. She wants to know if my scales itch when it’s hot, if I can breathe fire, if my tail knocks things over on accident. She’s curious, relentless, full of a fearless innocence that pierces straight through me. I answer what I can, dodge what I shouldn’t. The food is warm, but the conversation is warmer, wrapping me in a sensation I haven’t felt in so long I barely recognize it.

Family.

Then she asks it. The question that freezes me where I sit.

“Why are your eyes shiny like mine?”

The room goes silent. My fork stills mid-air. My pulse roars in my ears. Slowly, I turn to look at her. Solie blinks back at me, golden irises catching the flicker of the old lamp overhead. My chest tightens, claws twitching against the tabletop.

Luna laughs too loud. Too sharp. “Oh, Solie, everyone’s eyes are shiny under this light. Finish your beans.”

“But Mama?—”

“Brush your teeth,” Luna interrupts, standing so quickly her chair scrapes against the floor. “Go on. Bedtime.”

Solie pouts but obeys, slipping down from her chair. She waves at me as she pads toward the washroom. “Goodnight, mister dragon man!”

“Goodnight, little firefly,” I murmur, voice rough.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving the two of us in a silence heavier than any battlefield.

I lean back slowly, studying Luna. She won’t meet my eyes. Her hands fidget with the edge of the tablecloth, twisting the fabric. My mind is a cyclone. Coincidence. It has to be.

But my instincts, honed from years of hunting targets across war zones, tell me otherwise. My senses whisper truth in a language my heart’s too afraid to speak.