Page 4

KELLI

S ometimes, I try to remember my mother’s voice.

Not the way she screamed when they came—when the gang stormed our compound, rifles up, masks down—but before that. Soft and warm. Like sunlight through linen.

She used to hum while she worked. I think it was a song from Earth. Something old. Something sad.

I hum it sometimes under my breath, when no one’s around. Just to remind myself I’m not from here. That I came from something better, even if it didn’t last.

They died fast. I think. That’s what I hope. Father went first—shot trying to reach for his sidearm. Mother didn’t run. She held onto me like she could still protect me. She couldn’t.

I was eight. Small. Breakable. Perfect cargo for the black market.

Petru didn’t find me. He bought me.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s worse.

I think about them most before nights like this. Nights where I have to dress up like a doll and smile like my bones aren’t splintered under silk. I imagine my parents watching. I wonder if they’d recognize me.

I hope they wouldn’t.

Because this version of me? She’s not theirs.

She belongs to the Bleached Skull.

The knock isn’t loud. That’s how I know it’s bad.

Soft knocks mean orders. Sharp knocks mean punishment. But this—this half-hearted, ghost-knuckle tap? That’s what they do when they’re about to ruin you and want you calm about it.

Silpha walks in before I answer. Of course.

Her mouth is pinched, like always, like it hurts her to speak to me.

“You’re wanted,” she says flatly, tossing a thin bundle of silver fabric onto the cot.

My fingers twitch at the sight of it.

The silver dress.

I stand slowly. “What for?”

She looks at me, expression carefully blank. “Petru’s got a guest. High-priority.”

I feel my chest tighten. It’s not new, this feeling. That clench of dread right under my ribs. I’ve worn that dress four times. Always for show. Always to be paraded like some kind of alien collectible, never touched, never spoken to except in third-person.

But this time… something’s off.

Silpha shifts like she’s waiting for me to break. I don’t give her the satisfaction.

“Is it a party?”

She pauses. “You’ll be… entertaining him privately.”

The words don’t hit all at once. They slither in. Slow and cold.

I sit down hard on the cot.

Silpha turns to go, maybe to avoid watching whatever my face is doing.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

She stops at the door.

“A few days,” she says, too quickly. “Petru’s been planning something. Trying to impress him.”

“Do I even get a say?”

Silpha doesn’t turn around. “You never have.”

She leaves.

I stare at the silver dress. Shiny, cheap, thin enough to dissolve in moonlight.

So this is it.

Not a parade. Not another smug show of control. This time, he’s done waiting. Petru’s ready to cash in.

I press my hands to my face. It’s shaking. My whole body’s shaking.

I always knew this day would come. I just didn’t think it’d feel like this.

Not rage. Not even fear.

Just a hollow space. Like something inside me just stepped out.

I stand up and pick up the dress. It slinks through my fingers like a lie.

I get ready slowly. Every movement mechanical. Hair brushed, face rinsed. The dress clings in all the wrong places. I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t need to see the mask Petru likes best.

But as I sit back down on the cot, waiting for the guard who’ll escort me wherever I’m supposed to go, something sparks. Small. Stupid. Defiant.

If Petru’s really handing me over to some mercenary—someone new, someone who’s never been part of this sick little fantasy—then maybe this is my chance.

Maybe if I’m not “pure” anymore, he’ll get bored. Toss me out. Sell me off. Let me rot with the others. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find a crack big enough to slip through.

I can’t fight my way out. I know that.

But maybe I can ruin what he values.

I’ve never had a weapon before. But maybe this body—this stupid, polished, untouched thing—is a weapon.

And tonight, I get to aim it.

The guards come right on cue. Two Kiphians, bulky and grim. One gestures with a nod. “You know where to go.”

Yeah. I know.

I follow in silence.

The halls are humming louder tonight. Music from below, the scent of alcohol and perfume curling through the vents. The party’s already started.

They lead me through back corridors, then up a private stairwell. Higher than I’ve been before. I feel every step in my bones. Every inch of carpet under my bare feet.

They stop outside a velvet-draped door.

One guard knocks. The other mutters something into a commlink.

A moment later, the door hisses open.

“Go,” one says.

I walk in.

And immediately, the air shifts.

Low lighting. Private table. Lux wine on crystal. Petru sitting like a smug king, and across from him…

The merc.

I see the back of him first. Broad shoulders, silver hair tied tight, dark jacket stretched over a body that’s seen combat more than comfort. He’s a wall of silence.

Petru turns to me, face lit up like he’s handing out medals. “Kelli. Look at this. Doesn’t she shine like starlight?”

The merc turns his head, just slightly.

His eyes lock on mine.

Green. Sharp. Older than they should be.

He says nothing. But he looks. Really looks.

And I feel that look in my stomach.

Not like hunger.

Like a warning.

Like he sees everything.

Petru gestures. “Tonight, she’s yours. A gift. No need to thank me.”

I stand there, back straight, chin up. The merc says nothing.

And somehow, that silence is louder than anything Petru’s ever said.