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L ater that evening, the soft hum of the ship vibrated beneath the metal cargo container as Mei sat cross-legged by the viewport, staring out at the endless black. The ship, which had been stationary the past week, was back underway. She wasn’t sure what had been wrong, but Xyphos’ curses and Lorik’s greasy clothing led her to guess that it was a mechanical issue.

She released a sigh, leaned back against a piece of metal behind her, and pulled her notebook from her pocket. Her fingers traced the well-worn cover before she flipped it open. The pages inside were smudged with charcoal and pencil, filled with stolen moments, captured in quiet lines and soft shading.

A low chuckle slipped from her, and she looked out of the viewpoint again. She had used her escape pod as a storage unit to hide some of her most personal items during the Gliese’s voyage. She hadn’t wanted anyone, especially Sergi, to see her most inner thoughts. Her drawings were a glimpse of her soul, a peek inside her heart and mind.

Her hand caressed the soft cover of the notebook she was holding. She had been afraid to open this notebook at first. She was afraid of what the memories inside might do to her. But now, as she turned the pages, she realized they didn’t hurt.

They brought her peace.

She exhaled softly, studying the first drawing. She had captured Julia while she was unaware of anything else but what she was focused on. The page was filled with delicate, intricate details—Julia’s slender hands cupping a sprouting seedling, her glasses slightly askew as she studied a computer screen, a lock of blondish-brown hair falling over her cheek as she bent over a microscope.

Mei traced the drawing with her fingertip, the soft edges of the graphite bringing back the memory.

“You always draw people’s hands first,” Julia had once said, watching her from across the lab. “Why?”

Mei had smiled, shading in the curve of Julia’s fingers.

“Because hands tell the truth,” she’d replied. “A person can lie with their face, but never with their hands.”

Julia had laughed, the sound light and unguarded.

“That’s poetic. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dr. Marksdale.”

“You might be surprised,” Julia had teased. “One day, you’ll have to show me your drawings. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to wonder and never see.”

“ Perhaps one day,” she had vaguely replied.

Mei’s breath hitched at the memory. “It might not be too late. She could have survived. I did.”

The thought soothed her. She turned to the next page and shook her head. The image wasn’t refined like Julia’s had been. This one was a collage of moments with Josh. The drawing was pure chaos.

Her face lit up as she remembered drawing this one. There were schematics layered over each other, half-written notes scrawled in the margins, and a tiny, grinning stick-figure version of Josh giving a thumbs-up beside a horribly drawn spaceship labeled Definitely Not Rigged .

Mei chuckled. Josh had loved the ship. Every inch of the Gliese had been his playground, his puzzle to solve.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to fly a spaceship that wasn’t government-approved,” he’d said one night, sprawled out on the floor of the engine room, tools scattered around them as they worked to untangle what the engineers back on Earth had done.

“My dad used to say Earth looked the most beautiful from space. I wonder if he ever imagined this—being out here, where no one’s been before.”

“What do you think he’d say?” Mei remembered asking, watching him tinker with the system controls.

Josh had grinned, wiping grease from his hands.

“That I’m a goddamn genius.”

Mei snorted, shaking her head.

“More like a menace. If only the engineers could see what you are doing at the moment.”

“Please. I’m an innovator. Tell me you’re not impressed.”

She’d rolled her eyes but hadn’t argued. She’d been more than impressed. The next page was a drawing of him deep in thought as he lay under the console. She realized now that it had been one of those rare moments when she and Josh had been alone. As she studied his face, she realized that the mask of professionalism that she associated with him was gone. It was as if she were seeing layers of him that only a few people—like Ash—ever saw.

“You’ve given me a gift that I will always cherish,” she murmured, touching the corner of the drawing before she turned to the next page.

Warmth filled her when she saw Ash’s face. The drawing had captured Ash alive with movement, freezing him forever in mid-spin. His arms were outstretched, his head tilted back in laughter. The background was blurred, giving the illusion of floating in zero gravity, the faintest hint of music notes sketched in the air beside him.

The chill of movement against her cheek caused her to lift her hand to brush it away. Her hand froze in midair and she stared at the tips of her fingers when she realized that she had brushed away a tear. Her gaze flickered between the dampness and the page. A wistful smile curved her lips, and for a moment, she almost felt like she could close her eyes and travel in time back to that day.

“Come on, Mei,” Ash had coaxed, grabbing her wrist and tugging her toward him. “You can fight like a demon with Sergi, but you can’t dance? What kid never learned to dance?”

“The kid who didn’t want to embarrass herself,” she had laughed.

Ash had snorted, spinning effortlessly.

“Nonsense. Dancing is just another form of exercise. Think of it as getting in shape to catch Sergi next time. Consider me your new exercise coach.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m ‘vested. Josh, Julia, and I have placed bets, and I hate to lose.”

He had tried to teach her, guiding her movements, his warm laughter filling the air whenever she got a move wrong. And she had. Many times. On purpose, just so the lessons wouldn’t end.

She traced the edges of the sketch, remembering the way he had grinned at her triumphantly when she had followed his steps without tripping over herself.

“See?” he had said, beaming. “Told you I was the best dancer on the ship.”

“You are the only one who dances,” she dryly pointed out.

“Semantics, my dear pupil. Now, I have five marshmallows riding on you catching Sergi the next time.”

She chuckled and brushed another tear as she remembered Ash wiggling his eyebrows at her and leaning in. Shaking her head, she drew in a deep breath, gathering her emotions before she fingered the blue tab. Everything beyond it was focused on Sergi Lazaroff.

She knew Sergi’s history—just as he would have known hers. Cheng had given her a dossier on every member of the crew. Sergi’s had been thin, but the limited information had been enough to warn her that she was dealing with a man who wasn’t to be toyed with. Her lips quirked at the thought.

“Oh, Sergi. You’d better have survived,” she murmured, flipping over the pages.

She felt her throat tighten as a flood of emotions threatened to crush the icy wall she imagined protected her heart.

Sergi’s sketches differed from the others. The lines were heavier, bolder, capturing the smirk tugging at his lips, the mischief in his eyes, the cocky tilt of his head.

Each drawing made her chest ache.

Beneath the first, she had drawn a self-portrait of her with Sergi. He had his hand resting on her shoulder, their arms pressed together in a way that spoke of effortless camaraderie, of shared secrets, of unspoken trust.

“You know, you’re not as terrifying as you think you are.”

“Says the man who hid in a ventilation shaft for two hours after stealing my dessert.”

“I regret nothing and admit even less.”

“You should. That was my last piece of chocolate.”

“You don’t even like chocolate.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“That you’re a thief and I will have my revenge.”

Sergi had laughed so hard, he had nearly fallen off the table.

“I like you, pandochka,” he had said, using the nickname he had given her. Little panda. “You remind me of home.”

“You don’t,” she had whispered, turning away from him.

He had gently cupped her chin, turning her back to face him. His eyes were serious, somber. She held her breath as they looked at each other.

“I don’t what?”

“You don’t remind me of home.”

“What do I remind you of then, pandochka?”

She remembered throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him. He had held her close, his warmth sinking into her.

“Safe. You make me feel… safe. My home was never that, but here, with you and the others, it is,” she had confessed, pressing her face against his neck.

“Oh, pandochka. That is what a real home feels like. It is your fortress, your castle, against the world.”

Mei released a shuddering breath and closed the notebook slowly, her hands tightening around it.

They had been her family. They had shown her what a home felt like. And, for a brief, impossible moment, what it meant to be truly free.

Mei breathed in deeply, steadying herself. She tucked the notebook back into her pocket. Perhaps she hadn’t been as ready for the memories as she’d thought. She brushed another tear from her cheek and was wiping her hands on her trousers when she heard a noise outside in the corridor.

She stiffened, every nerve in her body going on high alert. Rolling silently off the crate, she grabbed her katana from where it had been lying beside her, and retreated to a shadowy spot behind a line of crates stacked by the door. Her fingers tightened around the katana when she recognized the staggering shuffle of heavy boots. The door hissed open, and the greenish tint of a large man with thick arms covered in spikes stood out against the ghastly, dim glow.

Grak.

Mei stilled, sinking deeper into the shadows behind the crates as the door closed behind Grak. The smell of alcohol hit her before she saw him. Acrid. Sharp. Fermented. It clung to the surrounding air, mixing with the already thick scent of ozone, rust, and burnt metal.

She had learned his stumbling, heavy gait over the last three weeks—a lumbering beast of a man who moved like gravity was his to command, a mantle of it cascading over his shoulders and thundering from his feet.

Tonight, he appeared drunker than usual.

His boots scraped against the floor as he staggered forward, muttering under his breath. Then, with fumbling fingers, he yanked a small communicator from his belt and activated it.

A sharp buzz of static filled the storage bay before a low, mechanical voice answered in his native tongue.

Grak’s words slurred, thick and guttural, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.

“Raash’ten vek Tor’Rag—vash ka’Lek turissh nash’tak vah.”

The voice on the other end responded, garbled but questioning.

Grak grinned, a wet, drunken chuckle rattling his chest.

“Zash’Tor ka’vak draal—ten vash’mek!” he crowed.

His words blurred together, voice thick with greed and liquor. He swung an arm wildly, nearly toppling a pile of discarded metal casings before bracing himself against the wall.

The voice crackled again, urgent.

Grak snorted, waving a hand at the air as if swatting away concerns.

“Tirash ka’nor ur’vak Cryon II. Draal tur’resh ka vash.”

He chuckled, tapping the communicator against his thick, ridged forehead before shoving it into his pocket.

Then he turned and his heavy-lidded eyes scanned the room, barely able to focus as he swayed on his feet.

Mei watched through a gap between the crates, her breath measured, controlled. Grak’s gaze landed on the escape pod. Mei’s pulse steadied.

Grak moved toward the pod, his massive hands running along its curved exterior, fumbling for a latch. His fingers slid over small dents, the scratches left behind from its emergency ejection. A flicker of frustration crossed his dull, glazed expression, but then his movements sharpened and he was wrenching the lid upward with a creaking groan of metal.

She stiffened when he paused. In the dim light, she could see his body tense. She didn’t need to see his face to know what he was looking at.

The ripped-out lining. The empty compartment where the survival gear had been. The evidence that someone had already been here.

A low, guttural chuckle slipped from Grak’s chapped lips, rolling into something darker. He turned, his body half-shrouded in the dim glow of the emergency lights—and spoke in English.

“I know you’re here.”

Mei’s fingers curled around the hilt of her katana.

“Come on, ancient one,” Grak coaxed, his eyes scanning the darkness. “The Legion is looking for the Ancients of the Gallant. They’d pay a damn fortune for you.”

Mei’s breath slowed.

Ancients of the Gallant.

The Legion.

Her mind filed away the information, but her focus remained on the immediate threat.

She watched as Grak’s thick fingers twitched, hovering near the weapon strapped to his belt.

Mei made her decision. She couldn’t risk him telling anyone else about the pod or her. Her mother’s soft words came back to her in haunting clarity.

“Let your enemy see what they wish to see. Someone who is weak, vulnerable, easily controlled. Then, strike with deadly precision. Do not give them a chance to understand what they are up against. And then become a shadow once more, because there will be others waiting. Those that are larger, more powerful than you, will always think they can control you, defeat you… but you are the viper. Small. Fast. Deadly.”

Her lips curved as her mother’s words flowed through her. She was small, fast, and deadly. She was the Green Tree Viper.

Grak’s eyes widened slightly when she stepped out of the shadows. Her mind calmed when a grin split his wide lips.

“Well, well,” he rumbled, his voice dripping with greed. “No one else on board knows about you or your pod. I would say this is my lucky day.” He rubbed his hands together, like a gambler with a winning hand. “And that, ancient one, makes you mine.”

Mei’s lips curved into a cool smile.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

And then—she moved.

Mei struck first. She stepped into his space, katana flashing upward with deadly precision. Grak barely had time to react—his body too sluggish, too slow—before her katana sliced through the air with a whisper of steel, parting fabric and skin in one seamless motion. The scent of blood—sharp, metallic—curled into her nostrils as Grak let out a guttural snarl, stumbling backward, his hand pressing against the thin, red line blooming across his chest.

Cursing, he fumbled for his weapon. Mei didn’t give him the chance. She sidestepped his wild swing, ducked beneath his reach, and drove her knee into his ribs.

A grunt of pain, but his thick hide and bone-structure made any physical contact with him pointless. Grak swung again, this time with more force.

Mei twisted, his fist grazing past her shoulder as she countered with a sharp elbow to his throat. He stumbled, gasping. She noted the weak spot.

He was bigger. Stronger. But she was faster.

Grak lunged, trying to grab her.

Mei pivoted, using his own momentum to flip him onto his back with a bone-rattling crash. He hit the floor hard, the air rushing out of his lungs. Before he could recover, Mei brought her katana up, poised to strike.

Grak froze. His bloodshot eyes darted to the blade hovering a breath from his throat. His chest heaved.

Mei stared down at him, unmoving for a split second before her hand moved with the grace of a dancer. The surgeon’s sharpness of her blade slid across the soft, vulnerable flesh.

She had been trained for this. Conditioned for it. And yet, the weight of the moment pressed against her ribs, as sharp as her blade. Not guilt. Not regret. Just the undeniable certainty that she had survived. Again.