Fear of caring.
Fear that I’m losing the one thing that kept me alive all these years, my edge.
CHAPTER 12
TRAZ
Three years.
Three goddamn years.
Since I last saw her.
Since I turned my back on the only thing that ever felt real and told myself it was for her own good.
Most days now, she’s a shadow.
A fading ghost tucked into the corners of my mind where even the blood and the smoke can’t touch.
I tell myself that's a good thing.
Tell myself it's proof I'm finally getting my edge back.
Finally putting the pieces in the right places again.
No more weakness.
No more hesitation.
Only work.
Only survival.
And I almost believe it.
Until nights like this.
When the black is too deep, and the ship creaks around me like an old wound, and I catch myself wondering what color her hair would look like now under the sickly lights of Gur.
Or if she ever thinks about me at all.
I snarl under my breath and shove the thought away.
Dead weight.
Ghosts.
Memories don't keep you alive in places like this.
Only skill does.
Only sharp, brutal purpose.
I slam the butt of my pistol onto the cracked table, rattling the comm unit back to life.
A single pulse of static.
A new message waiting.
