Kraz turns, his eyes widening in recognition and fear. The blood drains from his face, leaving him pale and ghostly in the dim light. "Maar," he whispers, his voice trembling. "How did you?—"
"One year," I cut him off, taking a step forward. The gravel crunches beneath my feet, each step a countdown to his inevitable fate. "One year I've spent hunting you down. Killing every last member of your pathetic Numerian Fist who tried tostop me." I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. "Every informant, every hideout, every secret passage - I've torn it all apart to find you, Kraz. And now, here we are, at the edge of the galaxy, with nowhere left for you to run."
Kraz backs up against the viewport, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Please, Maar. We can work something out. I'll double whatever you're being paid to?—"
I laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. "This isn't about money, Kraz. This is personal."
"I-I don't understand," he stammers, his eyes darting frantically around the room as if searching for an escape.
"Let me refresh your memory," I snarl, closing the distance between us with deliberate, menacing steps. The metallic taste of vengeance lingers on my tongue. "Remember when you ordered me to torture that family on Erebus? The screams of those children still haunt my dreams. Or how about when you had me execute those refugees on Kiphia? Their pleading faces, etched into my mind as I pulled the trigger."
Kraz's face pales, the blood draining from his cheeks as realization dawns. He presses himself further against the viewport, as if hoping he could phase through it. "That was business, Maar. Nothing personal," he chokes out, his voice barely above a whisper. "We were just following orders, you know that. The Numerian Fist had to maintain its reputation."
"Nothing personal?" I repeat, my voice dripping with venom. "What about when you ordered the hit on Alyssa Dash? When you sent your goons after her, time and time again?"
"The admiral's daughter?" Kraz's eyes dart around, looking for an escape. "She was just a target, Maar. You know how it is."
I grab him by the throat, slamming him against the viewport. The reinforced glass creaks under the pressure. "She wasn't just a target," I growl. "She was everything."
I tighten my grip on Kraz's throat, feeling his pulse race beneath my fingers. He claws desperately at my hand, his face turning a sickly shade of purple as he struggles for air. "Please," he chokes out, his voice barely audible. "I'll call off the hit. I'll leave her alone. Just let me live."
I lean in close, my face mere inches from his. My voice is a low, menacing whisper that sends a visible shudder through his body. "You're the last one, Kraz. Once you're dead, Alyssa will finally be safe." The words taste like justice on my tongue, a bittersweet victory that's been a long time coming.
His eyes widen in terror as the full weight of his situation crashes down on him. I can see the moment he realizes there's no way out, no more bargaining, no more chances. His gaze darts frantically around the room, searching for some miracle escape, but finding only the cold, unforgiving walls of the ship closing in around him. In that instant, I know he understands that his life of violence and cruelty has finally caught up with him, and that I am to be his executioner.
I release my grip on his throat, and for a moment, relief washes over his face. His eyes flicker with a spark of hope, thinking he might just survive this encounter. Then, in one swift motion, I draw my blade from its sheath at my hip, the metal singing as it slides free. Without hesitation, I plunge it deep into his chest, feeling the resistance of flesh and muscle give way.
Kraz's mouth opens in a silent scream, his eyes bulging with shock and pain as I twist the knife, feeling it grate against bone. The sickening crunch echoes in my ears, a sound I've grown far too accustomed to over the years. His body goes limp, all fight draining from him in an instant, and I let him slide to the floor. Blood pools around him, dark and thick, a stark contrast against the sterile white of the ship's interior.
I stand over him, watching as the light fades from his eyes. The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils, a familiar odor thatno longer turns my stomach. Kraz's body twitches once, twice, then goes still. "It's done," I mutter to myself, my voice sounding hollow in the eerie silence that follows death. "She's safe now."
FIVE YEARS LATER
CHAPTER 34
ALYSSA
"Please be advised that we are beginning our final descent into Terran orbit," the voice on the shuttle says, as I strap my seatbelt on.
I found Alyssa through my contacts. She's now living on Earth. Curiously, the tracking app that I had put it was no longer working. I figured that the IHC most likely found it and took it out when they were examining her.
I disembark the shuttle as it lands at Chiang Muy Spaceport on the southern part of the continent the humans call Asia.
"Thank you for flying with us, Mr. Gorn," the flight attendant says as she sees me pass through. I've been traveling incognito. Because I'm supposed to be dead.
I trace Alyssa to a city named Bangkok.
I settle in that night and in the morning, summon an aircar to take me close to the address I have of her.
The flight through the cities historic district is quick.
I step out of the aircar soon and onto the bustling streets of Bangkok, the humid air clinging to my skin like a second layer. The scent of street food and exhaust fumes mingles in the air, a cacophony of smells that assaults my senses. I scan the crowded sidewalk, my eyes darting from face to face.
And then I see her.
Alyssa stands at a fruit vendor's stall, haggling over a bunch of mangoes. Her hair is longer now, pulled back in a messy bun, wisps escaping to frame her face. She's laughing, the sound carrying over the din of the street, a melody I haven't heard in far too long. The sight of her hits me like a physical blow, memories of our time together flooding back in an instant.
But it's not Alyssa who catches my breath in my throat. It's the small figure clutching her hand, peering up at the colorful display of fruit with wide, curious eyes. A little boy, no more than two years old, with a mop of dark hair and features that mirror my own.
