The door hissed open again. Another shift rotation ending, maybe. A few boots scuffed the floor—heavy, low-tread military pattern. Another off-duty patrol or a crew returning from deep-system perimeter checks. This was a mercenary bar. Everyone here had a reason not to speak. It was part of the unspoken pact.
But one set of steps paused.
A brief hesitation.
Then deliberate movement.
The officer approached not with swagger, nor with deference. His footfalls were steady. Light. Calculated in that way only those who had seen far too much violence at far too young an age could manage. He was tall for his age—eighteen, maybe nineteen at most—but with that unmistakable posture: shoulders relaxed, hands visible, eyes forward but always watching.
He wore the gray trim of Dome Security Attachment 17—a rapid response unit assigned to the lower corridors of the research district. His armor was modular, clean but scored with marks earned the honest way. Two commendation stripes on the pauldron. The rest of the chest plate unadorned. Pistol holstered. Rifle stowed. Light neuro-pulse gloves half-folded at his belt.
His hair was a ragged mess of black curls that no one had told him to cut, and his face bore the ghost of a split lip healing beneath a days-old synth-seal. His skin was pale with the slight jaundiced cast common to those who spent too long under filtered light, and his eyes—sharp, intelligent, ice-colored—held the kind of tired that didn't come from a single bad shift.
He didn't recognize her at first.
Not like this.
He'd seen the governor before, of course. Everyone had. Her image was in the orientation briefings, the tactical simulations, even in the dry psychological analysis packets that warned new hires to "avoid unnecessary speculation on planetary command leadership." The spire kept her at a distance. Perfect. Unassailable. Cold.
But this wasn't the figure from the dossiers.
This was just a woman. Draped in fatigue gear, hair loose, face shadowed by dim overhead light. Her frame hunched slightly, barely perceptible, but telling to someone trained to notice weakness. Her eyes were hidden, hand over her face, body stiff with restraint—not the poised discipline of a commander, but the silent recoil of someone losing a private war.
He should have turned back.
He didn't.
Not out of boldness. Not even curiosity. But because something in him—a half-formed sense born from years of watching people snap—recognized the edge she was teetering on.
And for reasons he didn't fully understand, he didn't want her to fall alone.
He stepped up to the counter, one seat between them, and tapped twice. The bartender gave him a look, nodded, and set down a drink. No words. Just the weight of silent understanding. He didn't glance at her. Not directly. Just leaned in slightly, elbows on the bar, and spoke low.
"You don't have to talk," he said, voice even. "But I figured if someone's gonna drown alone, they shouldn't have to do it without knowing there's a lifeline nearby."
It wasn't clever. It wasn't sharp. But it was clean. Honest.
She didn't move at first. Her breath still staggered slightly, controlled but ragged around the edges. Her hand trembled, barely, against her cheek. He watched without watching, nursing his drink with the patience of someone who had seen people bleed out slower than this.
Minutes passed.
And then—
"Why are you here?" Her voice was low. Rough. Not the smooth, velvet timbre the mercenaries joked about in whispers. This voice was cracked glass—still dangerous, still composed, but cracked all the same.
He turned his head, just slightly. Enough to show her she wasn't speaking to empty air.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied. "And my squad just rotated off kinetic drills. Dome 11's quiet after two. Thought I'd grab a drink, maybe stare at the wall for an hour. Instead I saw someone who looked like they needed a second pair of boots on the ground."
She laughed. Just once. A short, bitter thing, as if the concept of help were a joke too far gone to salvage.
"I don't need anyone," she said, but it was the kind of lie that tasted of old wounds. Not pride. Habit.
He didn't argue. Just nodded slightly. Took another sip.
"I know. That's the worst part, isn't it?"
She turned her head then. Not much. Just enough to see him.
And for the first time, their eyes met.
He saw it all. The veneer. The shatter behind it. The raw, unspoken terror of someone who had built herself into a monument—only to realize that statues don't get to bleed.
She looked at him like someone staring at a weapon that hadn't gone off yet.
"You're very young," she murmured.
"I get that a lot," he replied, sipping. "Most of the corps didn't make it past twenty-four. Turns out if you survive four years and don't flinch, they let you make command calls."
A pause.
"And you don't flinch?"
"Only in private," he said. "It's allowed, isn't it? Just not in front of the troops."
Something shifted in her posture. Just slightly. Her shoulders eased—not relaxed, but no longer braced for impact.
He didn't press. Just let the silence spool out between them again. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was like the space between battlefield volleys. The kind of quiet that said: we're not dying yet.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked finally.
"I have a guess," he said. "But it doesn't matter unless you tell me."
She was quiet.
Then: "Serina Calis."
His tone didn't change. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
Her lips curved. Not a smile. Just a quirk—somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement.
"Why aren't you afraid?"
"I am," he said simply. "But if you wanted me dead, I'd already be. So either I'm here for a reason, or I'm about to be taught a lesson. Either way… I've had worse nights."
He turned his gaze forward again. Let her process. Let her breathe.
"People look at you like a myth," he said after a moment. "I think that's part of the problem."
She didn't reply. But she didn't stop him.
"They see the spire. The precision. The silences. And they think: 'That's control.' But I've seen too many people crack with that look in their eyes. The kind that says the silence isn't control—it's just the last wall holding the flood back."
Another beat.
"And maybe no one's ever looked at you and said that."
Serina didn't move. Her hands remained on the bar. Her fingers curled slightly inward. Her breath came shallow.
And then, very softly, barely audible:
"No one ever looked at me."
The words were nothing. The words were everything.
He said nothing. Just nodded. Finished his drink. Left the second one where it was.
"I'll be three seats down," he said, standing. "If you change your mind."
He walked away with the same quiet ease, as if nothing had happened at all.
But something had.
And for the first time since the dream, since the rose, since the kiss she never spoke of—
Serina Calis felt just a little less alone.
