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# REWRITE NOTICE #
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[This chapter is part of the rewrite batch released on March 3rd, 2025]
- For more information: See chapter titled "Update - Rewrite Status (1-6): Complete"
- All rewritten chapters contain this notice at the top
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I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.
- Carl Gustav Jung
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The guitar screams under her fingers, a raw, jagged sound that cuts through the workshop's stale air. Serval's hands move with a precision that borders on violence, her calloused fingertips pressing hard against the strings. The amp hums, the feedback building like a storm before she slams into the next chord. The sound is electric, alive, and for a moment, it drowns out everything else—the weight of the past, the ache in her chest, the way her back feels too exposed to the window that frames Qlipoth Fort in the distance.
Pela's drumming is steady, a counterpoint to Serval's fury. She's still in her Silvermane uniform, though the jacket hangs over the back of a chair, the gold trim catching the dim light. Her sleeves are rolled up, her gloves discarded, and her hands move with the same meticulous rhythm she uses to file reports or analyze terrain. But there's a looseness to her posture, a rare ease that only comes when she's here, in this workshop, with Serval and the music.
The song builds, the tension between them palpable. Serval's fingers falter for a split second, a discordant note slipping into the melody. She doesn't stop, doesn't even flinch, but Pela notices. Of course she does. Pela notices everything.
The drums slow, then stop. Serval's guitar wails one last time before she cuts the sound with a sharp twist of the volume knob. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded.
"You're off," Pela says, her voice calm but probing. She taps a drumstick against the edge of her snare, the sound sharp and deliberate. "Something's bothering you."
Serval shrugs, her back still turned. She adjusts the strap of her guitar, her fingers brushing the spot where her Architect badge used to hang. The weight of it is gone, but the phantom ache remains. "Just tired. Long day."
Pela doesn't buy it. She never does. "You're always tired these days."
Serval turns, finally, her guitar still slung low across her hips. Her blue eyes meet Pela's, and for a moment, there's something raw in her gaze, something she doesn't bother to hide. But then it's gone, replaced by the usual smirk. "What can I say? Rock stars don't sleep."
Pela rolls her eyes, but there's a flicker of concern in the gesture. She sets her drumsticks aside and leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "Speaking of rock stars, we'll need to reschedule next week's practice. There's a ceremony at Qlipoth Fort. All high-ranking officers are required to attend."
Serval's fingers tighten around the neck of her guitar. The mention of the fort is like a spark to dry tinder, igniting something she's been trying to suppress. She forces a laugh, but it comes out hollow. "Of course. Wouldn't want to keep the Supreme Guardian waiting."
Pela hesitates, her gaze flickering to the window behind Serval. The fort looms in the distance, its spires cutting into the sky like a reminder of everything Serval has lost. "It's just a formality," Pela says carefully. "Commander Bronya's giving a speech alongside Gepard. Something about unity and duty. You know how he is."
Serval's jaw tightens. She does know how he is. Her brother, the perfect Landau, the one who never questions, never falters. The one who still believes in the system that cast her out. She wants to be proud of him—she is, in some buried part of herself—but the pride is tangled with something darker. Sharper.
"At least one of us is still upholding the family honor," she mutters, her voice low and bitter.
"Serval…"
"Stop." Serval cuts her off, her tone sharper than she intends. She turns away again, her fingers idly plucking at the guitar strings. The notes are soft, almost mournful. "It's fine. Really."
The silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable. Pela shifts, her uniform creaking softly. "You could come," she says finally, her voice tentative. "As my guest. It might… I don't know. It might be good for you."
Serval's laugh is sharp, brittle. "Yeah, because nothing says 'good for you' like sitting in a room full of people who think you're a disgrace."
Pela flinches, and Serval immediately regrets the words. But she doesn't take them back. She can't. The truth is a blade, and sometimes it cuts both ways.
The tension lingers, unspoken but heavy. Pela picks up her drumsticks again, her movements stiff. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." Serval cuts her off, her voice softer now. She doesn't turn around, but her shoulders slump slightly. "I know you didn't."
They sit in silence for a moment, the air between them charged with things neither of them can say. Then Pela clears her throat, her tone deliberately light. "So, uh, I ran into Dunn the other day."
Serval groans, the sound half-exasperated, half-amused. "Don't tell me he's still asking about me."
Pela smirks, her usual composure returning. "He might have mentioned you. Specifically. Asked how you were doing."
"Of course he did." Serval rolls her eyes, her fingers strumming a lazy chord. "What did you tell him? That I'm still the same rebellious mess he tried to date?"
Pela laughs, the sound genuine this time. "I didn't say that, exactly. But he did seem… interested. Wanted to know if you were seeing anyone."
Serval snorts, her fingers stilling on the strings. "Interested? Dunn's idea of a good date is talking about the structural integrity of Qlipoth Fort's walls. The man called me 'Miss Landau' the entire time. Like we were at some formal dinner, not a bar."
Pela raises an eyebrow, her smirk widening. "Our former bandmate isn't that bad. A little stiff, sure, but he's… stable. Reliable."
"Stable and reliable," Serval repeats, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Exactly what every rebellious heart longs to hear."
Pela laughs again, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—something that makes Serval pause. She knows that look. It's the same look Pela gets when she's trying to solve a puzzle, when she's piecing together fragments of information to form a bigger picture.
"What?" Serval asks, her voice wary.
Pela hesitates, then shrugs. "Nothing. Just... you've been alone for a while. I thought maybe..."
Serval sighs, letting her head fall back. "Please don't tell me you're about to suggest what I think you're suggesting."
"He's accomplished. Respected in the Guard. Your father would—"
"Don't." Serval's fingers still on the strings, her shoulders tensing. "Just... don't."
The silence stretches between them, filled with all the things they never talk about - the Architects, her father's disappointment, the careful distance that's grown between her and everyone who still wears a badge.
Pela shifts on her stool, her uniform creaking softly. "I shouldn't have brought up your father."
"No, I..." Serval exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her frame. "I know you're trying to help. But I can't keep living my life trying to please people who've already decided who I should be." Her voice softens. "Does that make sense?"
"It does." Pela stands, but instead of leaving, she crosses to Serval and places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "For what it's worth, I liked who you were before all this. But I like who you are now, too."
Serval looks up at her friend, caught off guard by the simple honesty in her voice. "Even when I'm being impossible?"
"Especially then." Pela squeezes her shoulder before stepping back. "I should head back. Night patrol. Tell Lynx I said hi."
"Sure. Same time next week?"
"Always." Pela pauses at the door. "And Serval? The right person won't care about badges or family names. They'll just care about you."
After Pela leaves, Serval sits in the quiet workshop, her fingers finding their way back to the strings. The melody that emerges isn't angry or bitter - it's questioning, searching. She plays until her fingers ache, until the music says everything she can't.
When she finally stops, the silence settles around her like a familiar weight. She sets the guitar aside and leans back in her chair, Pela's words echoing in her mind. Someone who won't care about badges or family names. Her fingers trace absently over the strings.
"Is there really someone like that out there?" she whispers to the empty workshop.
Through the window, Qlipoth Fort's spires pierce the evening sky, offering no answers.
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The tires scream like wounded animals, shredding the morning's stillness. Alexander's head jerks toward the chaos just in time to catch the sedan hammering into the side of a pickup truck. Metal crumples with the crunch of bone, glass explodes outward, and the sedan spins wildly before collapsing on itself against the curb, smoking and still. The pickup lurches forward, stopping in a screeching skid mere feet from disaster.
The man's chest tightens. No time to think. His bike growls as he yanks it around hard, cutting a sharp U-turn into oncoming traffic. A car barrels past, missing him by inches in a rush of wind, but he doesn't so much as flinch. He slams the brakes, swings to the curb in one fluid motion, and ditches the bike, the kickstand snapping down as he flung himself off. The helmet barely hits the ground before he's sprinting, boots pounding the pavement.
He's moving toward the sedan, instincts overriding logic. The couple from the pickup spills out onto the street, adrenaline written in the jerky way they stumble, their skin ash-pale, their words tumbling over one another in frantic bursts of cursing. Alexander doesn't bother with them.
They're breathing. Conscious. They can wait.
The sedan tells a different story. Smoke curls from its crumpled hood. The windshield is split apart, a web of shatterlines; the driver's side door concaves into a twisted, bruised hunk of steel.
He barely registers his own movements—his steps closing the distance, the pounding in his chest drowned by a sharper instinct. He reaches the car and sees her slumped across the wheel, a nest of dark bloodied hair resting against the airbag. Glass flecks gleam against the lace of her white blouse like cruel ornaments. Blood streaks her face, her lips. She isn't breathing.
Move.
Alexander yanks at the driver's door, the metal letting loose a groan like it's begging him to stop. Acidic air—burnt rubber, fuel, and iron—slams him, but his hands don't hesitate. Fingers find her neck and press. Still. Too still.
His stomach turns.
Gunpowder. Blood. The sound of his father struggling to draw breath in a narrow alleyway in Rosario. His words swallowed by gurgling. His hands failing, no matter how hard he pressed against the wounds. Sirens wailing somewhere too far, seconds and lifetimes away.
He bites into his cheek until the sharp sting jolts him back, shoving memory aside. His arms hook under her shoulders, the broken glass digging into his skin as he drags her out of the wrecked car. Her head lolls bonelessly to one side, her weight pressing down on him as if daring him to stop. He lays her down with as much care as urgency will allow, barely noticing the grit and blood staining his hands.
CPR. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. The count drums through his head as his palms find her chest. He pumps with mechanical precision, the rhythm steady, unrelenting. Sweat drips into the blood on her blouse, and still, he doesn't stop. "Come on," he mutters under his breath. "Not today. Not you."
Movement stirs at the corner of his vision—bystanders gathering, gawking, useless. A car horn blares from somewhere behind him, punctuating the cacophony. The couple from the truck looms closer, their shouting muddled and uneven, noise without meaning.
A man edges forward from the group, his shirt untucked, his face twisted in misplaced determination. His hands flap uselessly at his sides, the gestures half-formed, clumsy, like he hasn't made up his mind about what he wants to do. "You're doing it wrong!" he shouts, his voice cracking, louder than it needs to be—as if volume could mask the uncertainty in his tone.
Alexander doesn't even glance up. He can tell, without wasting a second, that the man doesn't have a clue. Doesn't see the steady compressions. Doesn't hear the faint, gasping breaths Alexander's fighting to coax from her lungs. Maybe he's picturing some TV version of CPR or worse, just needs to feel useful.
"Get the hell back," Alexander snaps, his voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. Precise.
The man falters, his mouth opening to argue. "But I think—"
Alexander's glare finally lands on him, a thunderclap in its own right. "Think all you want—over there." His tone bristles with such force it pins the man where he stands. A flush creeps up the man's neck as an older woman pulls him away by the arm, whispering something harsh under her breath about letting the guy work.
Alexander has already turned back to her—to rhythm, breathing, life—and the rest of the world falls back into the noise where it belongs. His focus is unbreakable, his mind half-lost in the repetition. Compressions. Breaths. A plea murmured between clenched teeth, barely audible. Come on. Breathe. Please!
Through it all, he doesn't even notice the slick streaks of blood on his forearms anymore. Keep pushing. Keep going. And then—
A sound. Small. A whisper fighting to be heard. The faintest gasp escapes her lips, rattling weakly in her throat, followed by a shallow, uneven breath. He freezes. Her eyes flutter open, the thin film of confusion spreading across them like frost.
She coughs, wet and broken, blood smearing her lips. "I… I looked at my phone," she rasps, her voice distant, fragile. "Didn't see… I didn't…"
"Quiet," Alexander cuts in sharply, his hands already tearing a strip from his shirt to press against a cut at her temple. His tone softens, muting itself as if speaking might undo her fragile revival. "You're here. You're okay now. Just stay with me."
Distant sirens climb closer, the noise swelling over the scattered murmurs of onlookers. The woman from the truck calls out, her voice shaking. "We called 911! They should be here any second!"
He doesn't acknowledge her, his eyes glued to the woman beneath him. Still breathing. Stay breathing.
When the paramedics arrive, it's a blur of practiced urgency—gloved hands, clipped instructions, the hiss of oxygen tanks. Alexander steps back, letting them do what he couldn't. His breaths come in shallow gasps, though he barely realizes. His hands dangle at his sides, blood tacky on his palms.
"You did good." The voice belongs to one of the officers who showed up in the commotion, his notebook open, pen poised. The words hold no weight; Alexander barely hears him. Instead, he focuses on the ambulance pulling away, its lights painting the early morning gray in harsh streaks of red and blue.
"Good," Alexander mutters, like he's testing the word. His fists clench, nails digging into his palms. He takes a breath that tastes of blood and scorched air and rubs a trembling hand down his face.
Behind him, the officer speaks, waiting for answers. In his periphery, bystanders shift, their curiosity waning now that the life-or-death moment has passed.
The vibration of his phone breaks through it all. He pulls it from his pocket, presses dial with unsteady fingers. Nataly's voice answers on the second ring, rapid-fire with worry. "Boss? Where the hell are you? We're having our prep meeting in just about—"
"There was a wreck." His voice, calm now, measured. "I'll be late. Twenty, twenty-five minutes."
"What happened? Are you hurt?" Her concern slices through for just a second. He hears it.
"I was just on my way to work and…" The words scrape his throat, empty and hollow, before his mind yanks him backward—to where he'd been minutes ago.
He'd been sitting on his bike in the barren parking lot of a church, the engine purring beneath him, helmet balanced loosely on the handlebars. Across the cracked pavement, the temple doors stood resolute, intimidating in their quiet, patient vigil. He couldn't move. Just sat there, frozen, staring at the building like it might come alive and swallow him whole.
Go inside. The thought repeated like a drumbeat, a litany pounding against his skull. But his body wouldn't obey. There was too much dread lodged in his gut, too much shame twisting its barbed wire grip around his ribs. He could see himself walking through those doors, facing everything that waited for him on the other side. Confession. Redemption. Weakness.
The words made his palms sweat.
Minutes passed. Or maybe they were hours—it hardly mattered. He couldn't bring himself to even swing his leg off the bike. And then, before he could entertain the thought any further, shame won out over resolve. Panic seared through him, numbing his limbs, lighting his nerves on fire. He bolted, twisting the throttle and tearing out of the lot as if outrunning the confrontation he'd refused to have.
On the road, his mind barely registered the blur of buildings and cars lining his route to the office. Just static, noise. Then—screeching tires. Shattering glass. The sedan careening into a pickup truck. And without thinking, he'd turned the bike, rushing toward the wreck.
Toward something he could actually fix.
"Alexander?" Nataly's voice yanks him back to the present.
He wets his dry lips, fighting against the tangle of memory and adrenaline that clings to him. "I…" He exhales sharply, dragging himself into the moment. His gaze locks on the now-empty street, the ambulance long gone and the blood still drying on the sidewalk.
He pauses, his eyes flicking down to his torn, blood-streaked shirt. Shit.
"Never mind that. Nataly, I need a favor," he adds, his jaw clenched. "In the locker room—there should be a spare shirt in there. Use my keys and grab it for me."
There's a beat of silence on the other end, long enough for him to hear the confusion lace her reply. "A shirt? What—"
"Please," he snaps, sharper than intended. A moment later, he draws a breath, forcing the tension to bleed from his tone. "Just—handle it. I'll explain later."
Another pause. She doesn't push further, though the hesitation in her voice is clear. "Okay. I'll take care of it."
"Thanks," he mutters before ending the call brusquely. The phone slips back into his pocket as he exhales slowly, willing his thoughts back into some semblance of order. For a moment, he stands there, motionless, the phantom pressure of compressions still buzzing in his hands, his fingers memory-bound to the rhythm.
Is this enough? Will this make up for everything?
The question lingers as he turns back toward his bike. He knows it won't answer itself. The day isn't over yet.
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Himeko leans against the railing of the Astral Express's observation deck, watching the gleaming spires of Herta Space Station grow larger through the viewport. The massive structure stretches out before them like a mechanical flower blooming in the void, its docking arms extended in silent welcome. Behind her, she hears March 7th's camera clicking away, immortalizing yet another arrival.
"Careful with the shutter speed in zero-G," Welt calls out, his voice carrying that gentle instructor's tone. "The station's rotation can blur your shots."
"Got it!" March chirps back, adjusting something on her camera. "But look how the light hits those panels! It's like they're made of liquid gold."
Himeko smiles to herself, letting their familiar banter wash over her. Her fingers drum against the railing, a nervous habit she's never quite shaken. The Express needs this resupply stop - their adventure on Nyssa-III had depleted more resources than expected. But time isn't exactly on their side, not with the Charmony Festival looming and two more worlds crying out for help.
The comm system crackles to life. "Express One-Four-Zero, you are cleared for docking at Platform Three," a crisp voice announces. "Please maintain your current approach vector."
Dan Heng's quiet footsteps approach from behind. "I'll handle the docking sequence," he offers, already moving toward the bridge. His reflection in the viewport shows the slight tension in his shoulders - he's never quite comfortable during station approaches.
"I've got it," Himeko says, straightening up. "Why don't you help March document our grand entrance? She's been trying to get that perfect shot of the docking clamps for weeks."
A flicker of relief crosses Dan's face before he nods, turning back to where March is practically bouncing with excitement. Welt catches Himeko's eye and gives her an approving nod. He understands - sometimes the kindest leadership is knowing when to let someone step back.
The Express glides into the docking bay with practiced grace, the magnetic clamps engaging with a series of satisfying thunks that reverberate through the hull. Through the viewport, Himeko spots Asta waiting on the platform, clipboard in hand and looking as put-together as ever. Beside her stands Arlan, his usual stern expression softened slightly by what might be the ghost of a smile.
"Home sweet home," March sighs happily, snapping another photo. "Well, one of them, anyway."
Himeko pushes off from the railing, her movements fluid in the artificial gravity. "Let's not keep our welcoming committee waiting. And March?" She pauses at the doorway, a knowing look in her eye. "Try not to overwhelm Arlan with too many photos this time. I think he's still recovering from your last documentary attempt."
March's laugh echoes through the observation deck as they make their way to the airlock. This might be a quick stop, Himeko thinks, but maybe - just maybe - it's exactly what her crew needs right now.
The docking bay of the Herta Space Station hummed with activity as the Astral Express slid gracefully into its berth, its sleek, train-like form gleaming against the star-studded backdrop. Himeko stood at the edge of the platform, her hands resting on the railing, and watched with a quiet satisfaction as the crew of the station sprang into action. Cranes whirred to life, extending their mechanical arms to unload the supplies, while the metallic clang of tools echoed through the vast chamber. The air was thick with the scent of fuel and the faint tang of ozone, a familiar and comforting smell that reminded her of countless stops like this one.
Behind her, the crew of the Astral Express began to disembark, their movements relaxed after the long journey from Nyssa-III. March 7th bounced ahead, her eyes wide with excitement, her camera in hand as she snapped photos of everything in sight. Dan Heng followed more slowly, his sharp eyes scanning the area with a practiced air of caution, his Cloud-Piercer lance resting against his shoulder. Welt brought up the rear, his cane tapping softly against the metal floor, his expression calm and observant.
Himeko turned to greet Asta, who approached with her clipboard clutched tightly in one hand, a warm smile on her face. "Welcome back, everyone," Asta said, her voice crisp and professional. "It's good to see you all again. I trust your journey was uneventful?"
"Uneventful might be stretching it," Himeko replied with a wry smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But we made it in one piece. Thanks for the welcome."
Arlan, standing a few paces back, nodded in greeting, his arms crossed over his chest. His purple eyes flicked briefly to Dan, a small, almost imperceptible nod passing between them. Himeko noticed it and filed it away, a mental note to check in with Dan later. He had been quieter than usual since their last stop, and she knew better than to press him when he was in one of his withdrawn moods.
As the station crew moved to unload the supplies, Asta gestured toward the main part of the station. "I was thinking, since you're here, you might want to stay for the night. It's been a while since you've had a chance to rest properly, and I'm sure the crew could use the break."
Himeko hesitated for a moment, glancing at her crew. March was busy trying to get a shot of a particularly large crate being lifted by a crane, her camera held up to her eye. Dan stood off to the side, his back to the large windows that offered a view of the stars, his expression unreadable. Welt leaned against a nearby pillar, watching the scene with an air of quiet amusement.
"We weren't planning on staying," Himeko said finally, "but... maybe it's not a bad idea. The crew could use a bit of downtime."
Asta nodded understandingly. "I thought you might say that. You're always on the move, Himeko. It's good to take a breather every now and then."
Himeko smiled, though a small pang of guilt tugged at her. They had been pushing hard, trying to reach as many worlds as possible before the Charmony Festival on Penacony. The Festival was still a few weeks away, but the recent surge in Stellaron appearances had made her restless. Every delay could mean more worlds in danger, more lives lost.
As if reading her thoughts, Asta said, "We've been monitoring the Stellaron activity too. It's concerning, to say the least. But you can't pour from an empty cup, right? Take the rest. You'll be better off for it."
"Thanks, Asta," Himeko replied, meaning it. She turned to her crew. "Alright, everyone. Let's take Asta up on her offer. We'll stay for the night, restock, and head out fresh in the morning."
March let out a whoop of excitement, lowering her camera. "Yes! I can finally get some real sleep!" She bounced over to Himeko, her eyes shining. "Do you think they have any good food here? I'm starving!"
Dan raised an eyebrow. "You're always starving, March."
"Well, someone's got to keep their strength up," March shot back, grinning. "Besides, I heard the station has some amazing desserts. I need to try them all!"
Welt chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Let's see how that goes."
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The motorcycle's engine cuts off abruptly as Alexander coasts into the parking lot, tires skidding ever so slightly on the asphalt. In one swift motion, he swings his leg over, ripping off his helmet and running a hand through sweat-dampened hair. The morning sun carved harsh lines across the floor, forcing him to squint as sweat trickled down his temple.
Nataly stands by the entrance, stiletto heels tapping an impatient rhythm against the pavement. A neatly folded shirt rests in her arms. Her eyes narrow as they rake over him, catching on the blood smeared across his collar, the dried flakes clinging to his knuckles. Her lips part, but before she can voice the questions swirling in her gaze, he's already moving toward her, strides quick and deliberate.
"Oh my God, Alexander. What happened?" Her voice edges on panic, rising above the muted hum of the city waking up around them. "Are you hurt? Tell me that's not your blood."
He exhales sharply through his nose, scrubbing a rough hand over his jaw as if to wipe away the tension etched there. "It's not mine," he says, already turning away from her probing gaze, shoulders rigid. The ruined shirt clings to his skin, sticky with sweat and not his own blood. With a grimace, he peels it off, muscles tensing as the fabric scrapes over raw knuckles. Nataly averts her eyes quickly, though not before noticing the results of what were clearly years of disciplined training.
"There was a crash," he offers curtly, eyes flicking past her. "Driver wasn't breathing. I handled it."
Her eyes widen, disbelief mingling with concern. "You mean—you performed CPR?"
"Yes." He yanks the clean shirt over his shoulders, fingers working the buttons with practiced efficiency. "She's alive. That's what matters." He looks at her then, gaze hard. "Now, are we confirmed for Powell?"
She hesitates, still processing, but he can see her switch gears—the professional mask sliding back into place. Yet she can't resist muttering under her breath, "You have to stop throwing yourself into chaos."
He ignores it, brushing past her as they head inside. The glass doors glide open with a whisper, and the cool embrace of air conditioning washes over them, a stark contrast to the heat outside. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, the antiseptic scent of the office filling his lungs. Eyes flicker toward him—some curious, others wary—but he pays them no mind, his focus razor-sharp.
As they stride through the maze of cubicles, a weight settles on his shoulders. This deal isn't just another notch in his belt; it's a lifeline. He glanced at his phone, ignoring the latest payment reminder from Metropolitan Hospital. Nine bullets, three surgeries, and endless physical therapy sessions - all adding up to numbers that made his head spin. All those years of scraping by, of paying for specialists who might help reverse the damage. Dad could focus on therapy. Mom wouldn't have to keep everything together with tape and sheer willpower.
He keeps moving, the thought a silent mantra. Nothing is going to derail this today.
Whispers trail in his wake, hushed voices nibbling at the edges of his resolve. He catches snippets—mentions of blood, of his abrupt arrival—but he doesn't break stride. "Everything's fine," he says firmly but quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "Please, just focus on work."
Reaching his workstation, he finds James hovering uncertainly beside the cluttered desk. The younger man's gaze flits from the scattered papers to Alexander's still-raw knuckles.
"James," Alexander begins, not bothering with pleasantries. "Where's the quarterly projections file I asked for?"
James fidgets, shifting his weight like a skittish animal. "Quarterly... projections?" His voice wavers. "I didn't—no one sent that to me. I didn't know you needed one."
His insides twisted, each muscle coiling tighter with every word from James's stammering explanation. He straightens, the air around him seeming to tense. "I asked for it last week," he says evenly, a dangerous calm lacing his words.
James blanches, eyes darting toward Nataly in silent plea. "I swear, I didn't get anything about that."
Nataly steps forward, her own composure fraying at the edges. "Wait, what? I emailed the department heads after you mentioned it in last Friday's meeting."
Alexander turns to her, jaw tight. "Who exactly did you contact?"
She fumbles with her phone, scrolling rapidly. "Tom in Data," she replies, urgency creeping into her voice. "He's handled projections before, so I thought—"
"Tom's on vacation," Alexander cuts in, realization striking like a knife. His eyes harden. "You didn't check if he assigned someone to cover?"
A flicker of frustration crosses her features. "I assumed it would be automatically handed off."
"Assumed." The word tastes bitter on his tongue. "So no one informed James, and the task fell into a void." His hands clench at his sides, knuckles whitening. The morning's events press down on him—the crash, the lifeless woman brought back from the brink, and now this.
Without warning, he turns and drives his fist into the nearest wall. The drywall gives way with a dull thud, a small crater left in the wake of his anger. Dust floats to the ground like ash.
A hiss escapes between his teeth. "Fuck!" The sting in his knuckles is nothing compared to the churn of frustration boiling inside. His own failures stacking one atop another, each misstep and oversight threatening to bury him.
Silence falls around them, the office momentarily frozen. Faces peer over cubicle walls, eyes wide and mouths agape. A few whispers of "Should we call HR?" drift through the air, but nobody moves.
Calm the hell down! He inhales slowly, forcing the air into his lungs, tamping down the fire threatening to consume him. Turning back to James and Nataly, he releases his fists. "Sorry… This… This isn't on you," he says, voice steady but low. "It's on me. I should have ensured the handoff was clear." His gaze softens just a fraction. "What matters now is how we fix it. When we close this, because we will, you're both getting a significant bonus. I promise."
James nods hurriedly, relief washing over his features. Nataly presses her lips together, a mixture of guilt and determination settling in her eyes.
Alexander straightens, rolling his shoulders back. "What do we know about who Powell's bringing beyond our champion? Their CTO? CFO?"
Nataly hesitates, a glimmer in her eye. "That's actually interesting - they've been unusually tight-lipped about it, but I did some digging. I'm almost certain Stephen Watkins himself will be there."
"Stephen Watkins?" Alexander's brow furrows. "Their CEO? Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure." She glances at James, who's already typing on his laptop. "James and I have been researching everything we can find on him since I got the tip."
James nods, eyes scanning his screen. "We've found a few angles - he's big on sustainable tech, sits on three environmental boards..."
"He's done TED talks on innovation," Nataly adds.
"And according to his Instagram," James continues, "he's obsessed with the Dallas Cowboys."
Alexander pauses. "Wait. Say that last part again?"
"He's a Huge Dallas Cowboys fan."
An idea sparks—sharp and clear. Alexander's lips twitch into a semblance of a smile. "Perfect."
Nataly raises an eyebrow. "What's perfect?"
"I have a connection. Someone who can sway Watkins in our favor."
Without waiting for a response, he pulls out his phone, scrolling through contacts until he lands on a familiar name: Marcus Johnson.
He taps the call button. The phone rings, each tone stretching longer than the last. Finally, a warm voice answers. "Well, if it isn't Alexander. Is the Argentinian calling to finally admit the superiority of American football over your precious soccer?"
A grimace of disgust crosses Alexander's face. "It's football, Marcus. Your sport barely even uses feet - just a bunch of guys carrying a ball with their hands." He pauses, humor warming his tone. "But that's not why I'm calling. Is your brother in town?"
There's a pause. "TJ? Yeah, he's around. What's this about?"
"I'm meeting with Stephen Watkins from Powell this afternoon. He's a big fan of your brother. If TJ could drop by the office, make a brief appearance..." He lets the suggestion hang.
Marcus's voice turns guarded. "Using TJ to schmooze a client? I don't know, man..."
"Remember Caracas?" Alexander's voice drops low, heavy with meaning. "When you called me at 3 AM, desperate?" A beat of silence. "I didn't ask questions then. Just got on a plane."
The line goes quiet for several heartbeats. When Marcus speaks again, his tone has shifted. "Yeah. Yeah, you did." Another pause, shorter this time. "And here I am, hesitating over getting my brother to say hello to some fan." A resigned sigh. "Alright, I'll talk to him. Just remember this isn't close to settling that debt."
"3:15 sharp. I'll make it worth your while."
"Save it," Marcus replies, warmth returning to his voice. "Just don't make me regret this. I'll let you know once I talk to him."
"Appreciate it." Alexander ends the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
He turns to find Nataly and James watching him with poorly concealed curiosity. Their eyes dart away when he meets their gaze, but the questions hang in the air like static. Caracas. 3 AM. The kind of favor that creates an unspoken debt.
Neither of them dares to ask.
"We have a new plan," he announces. "TJ Johnson—star player for the Cowboys—is making a surprise visit during our meeting."
James's eyes widen. "Are you serious?"
Alexander nods. "Watkins won't see it coming. It'll give us the opening we need."
Nataly crosses her arms, skeptical. "And you think a celebrity cameo is enough to seal this deal?"
"It's not about sealing it," he counters. "It's about getting his attention. Once we have that, the rest is up to us—and our numbers." He fixes them with a steady gaze. "We have an hour and a half. Please double-check to make sure everything else is flawless."
They nod, urgency propelling them back to their tasks. Papers shuffle, keyboards clack, the electric buzz of focused energy filling the space.
Alexander stands back, watching his team prepare with practiced efficiency. His gaze drifts to his hands, still faintly stained despite his best efforts to scrub them clean before he arrived. The woman's face flashes through his mind—blue-tinged lips, vacant eyes—before chest compressions brought color flooding back. With a sharp exhale, he pulls out a cigarette and heads for the fire escape.
The metal creaks under his weight as he leans against the railing, lighting up with practiced motions. Between drags and fielding rapid-fire questions from his team through the window, he pulls out his phone. His fingers move automatically through the familiar motions of his daily quests in Honkai: Star Rail, the mindless routine offering a moment of escape from the morning's chaos. Sebastian had been right about one thing - mobile games made excellent distractions. Should never have let him talk me into downloading this, he thinks, thumb hovering over auto-battle. I should check if Phainon is getting a re-run sometime soon.
As the minutes tick by, he checks his phone: no message yet from Marcus. He resists the urge to call again, knowing it won't hasten anything.
Finally, his phone vibrates. A text: TJ's in. See you at 3:15.
"Bingo."
———————————————
The holographic display keeps flickering. It's been doing that for weeks now, and Welt's pretty sure someone should fix it—probably not Himeko though, given what happened last time she tried to "improve" the station's equipment. He watches the unsteady light paint weird shadows across Asta's face as she pulls up their latest data.
Stars, his eyes are tired. How long have they been staring at these readings? The coffee machine's broken again (definitely not Himeko's fault this time), and he's starting to see patterns in everything. Though maybe that's just the Stellaron data getting to him.
"Your findings from the Nyssa-III readings are fascinating," Asta says, and Welt has to bite back a laugh. Fascinating. That's one way to put it. Try terrifying. Try impossible. Try 'what the hell were we thinking going that close to begin with.'
Himeko's leaning way too close to the display, her hair practically touching the hologram. She'll get a headache if she keeps that up, but he knows better than to say anything. "The Stellaron's behavior pattern was..." She trails off, squinting at something. "Hang on, is that—? No, never mind. It was just doing its usual 'let's destroy everything' thing, but... differently?"
Welt nods, mostly because his neck needs the stretch. "Yeah, it's like it was..." He waves his hand vaguely at the graph, which honestly looks more like abstract art at this point. "Like it was doing math while it tried to kill us. Very considerate of it, really."
"Herta's gonna love this," Asta says, fiddling with her glasses. They're smudged again—she always forgets to clean them when she's excited about data. "Though I guess she's got her own pet catastrophe to play with now."
Welt winces. He still can't believe Herta managed to get approval for that. Sure, she's an Emanator, but keeping a Stellaron on a space station? For science? It's like keeping a black hole in your pocket because you're curious about what it'll do to your spare change.
But again, he of all people couldn't speak aloud against the idea, given his powers.
"Even with the best containment tech and Herta's whole..." Asta waves her hand in what Welt assumes is meant to be an impression of Herta's particular brand of genius, "...thing, we haven't exactly made progress. These things don't exactly play nice in a lab setting."
He catches Himeko's expression—that dangerous mix of curiosity and determination that usually ends with something exploding. "Don't even think about it," he mutters, but she's already thinking about it.
"Do you think it's possible?" She turns to him, and yeah, she's definitely got that look in her eyes. "To study them properly, I mean. Without the whole 'corruption and destruction' part?"
Welt sighs. He's been around long enough to know better, but... "Even with everything I've seen—" Which is a lot, thank you very much. "I'm practically a toddler compared to some of the beings out there." He shrugs, feeling every one of his considerably numerous years. "Most Emanators would look at this problem and go 'nope, not today, thanks.' And we need answers yesterday."
"Speaking of yesterday..." Asta pulls up a map that makes Welt's stomach drop. Red dots everywhere, like a case of cosmic measles. "They're popping up faster than bad coffee jokes in the crew lounge. Star rails are going dark, and—"
"And we're all screwed if we can't fix it," Himeko finishes, unusually blunt. She's staring at the trade routes, probably already calculating how many systems are one broken rail away from collapse.
Welt watches the wheels turn in her head. The IPC's going to have a collective aneurysm if they lose any more major routes. Whole planets dependent on each other, economies balanced on the edge of a knife—or in this case, on the stability of paths between stars.
"What about your home?" Asta asks Himeko, her voice gentle. "Are you worried about—"
Welt goes very, very still. Oh, here we go.
"Nothing to worry about back home," Himeko says, with that particular smile she uses when she's already halfway to the next star system in her head. It's the same smile she wore when she left... well, everything. Everyone. Always chasing the next horizon, their Himeko.
Welt pretends to be very interested in a data point he's already memorized. Some things are better left unsaid, even if everyone in the room can read them in the careful way Himeko changes the subject.
———————————————
Numbers blur together on the conference room table. Alexander's been staring at them so long they're starting to dance, but Watkins—he's taking his sweet time with every page. The CEO's expression hasn't changed in the last five minutes: that same, pinched look that screams 'I'm about to tear your projections apart.' His finger keeps tapping the table, not quite in rhythm with the humming fluorescent lights overhead.
Come on, come on. Alexander steals another glance at his phone. 3:13. Almost showtime.
"These projections..." Watkins finally looks up from the page, and yep, there it is—that look Alexander's seen a hundred times before. The 'I'm about to tell you why you're wrong' look. "They're optimistic." He pauses, probably searching for a diplomatic way to say 'bullshit.' "Too optimistic. You're telling me you can hit these numbers without—"
knock knock knock
Perfect timing. TJ Johnson could've been a damn actor in another life—everything about him right now is pure performance. The Cowboys jacket (probably fresh from the team shop, knowing Marcus), that easy stride that says 'yeah, I catch million-dollar passes for a living.' Alexander fights down a smirk. Hook, line...
"TJ." He lets his voice carry just enough annoyance. Not too much—gotta sell it. "You were supposed to call first. I'm in the middle of something here."
TJ's response comes with that million-watt grin of his. "My bad, my bad." He waves it off like he's brushing away an interception. "Handle your business." Then he's gone, that practiced swagger carrying him toward the elevator, leaving behind a wake of dropped jaws and wide eyes.
The silence stretches. Alexander counts the seconds in his head, letting it build. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
"That was..." Watkins's voice cracks a little. Had to be killing him, trying to maintain that CEO composure. "That wasn't..."
"TJ Johnson?" Alexander keeps his eyes on the projections, like NFL stars drop by his office every Tuesday. "Yeah. His brother Marcus helped us out with some logistics a while back." He glances up, catching Watkins's stunned expression. "Complex situation. TJ checks in sometimes, sees how the business side's doing."
Watkins's pen hovers over the page, forgotten. The skepticism from earlier? Gone, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like hero worship. "He just... stops by?"
"When he's not busy destroying the Eagles' secondary." Alexander taps the forgotten projections with his pen. Might as well twist the knife a little. "Now, about these numbers..."
The rest of the meeting? Pure poetry. Every point lands like it's been gift-wrapped. Watkins isn't just listening anymore—he's leaning in, nodding, actually smiling. Even laughs at one of James's terrible gradient charts (note to self: really need to talk to him about those).
By the end, Watkins can barely keep still, hovering at the door like a kid at Christmas. "If Johnson ever happens to be around again..."
Alexander lets himself smile. Just a little. Just enough. "Get legal moving on this deal," he says, "and we'll see about making that happen. Might even get his thoughts on their playoff chances."
The gleam in Watkins's eyes? Worth every steak dinner he'll owe Marcus for the next year. "I'll have the paperwork tomorrow." He adjusts his tie, remembering himself. "First thing."
Dad's doctors are gonna need a bigger filing cabinet, Alexander thinks, already tasting victory.
Sometimes the best plays are the ones you never see coming—unless, of course, you're the one who planned them.