The ride back to Spine should’ve felt like victory.

  The Ripper was dead. Cores secured. No one in Unit Seven in a body bag.

  Karauro only felt the ache in his knuckles and the echo of Nera’s voice, sharp as shrapnel.

  You froze, and Roy had to play hero to save your ass.

  The hauler growled through dim, battered streets, shield-light flickering across its dented panels.

  Roy sat across from him, bandage glowing faint where regen-gel knit torn muscle. Every bump made him wince, but he still smirked like it was all some bad joke.

  Karauro kept his visor down. Easier to stare at his own HUD than meet anyone’s eyes.

  The gates of Spine opened with a grinding yaw, energy shields parting like tired eyelids. Floodlights washed the yard in harsh white as the hauler rolled in and settled with a hiss of hydraulics.

  “Unit Seven, unload and clear,” Aaron called over the internal comm.

  Karauro stepped down to concrete that thrummed with generator hum. Mercs moved in waves—checking weapons, dragging crates, yelling for tools and ammo. Usual noise, usual chaos.

  Today, it barely reached him.

  Nera walked ahead, helmet off, expression set in stone. She handed off the cores to a tech crew, signed a slate, turned away.

  Not even a glance back.

  Dead weight. Foolish enough to believe in a rat like you.

  Roy elbowed him lightly. “You’re walking like you’ve got Ripper claws stuck up your spine.”

  Karauro forced his shoulders to loosen. “Thought I’d keep the theme.”

  Roy snorted, then hissed when the laugh tugged his wound. “Save the comedy for when something isn’t trying to cut us in half.”

  “You’re the one who jumped in front of me,” Karauro muttered.

  “Yeah, well…” Roy shrugged with his good shoulder. “Red hair, bad habits.”

  Aaron intercepted a medic crew and pointed at Roy. “Pods are open, kid. Get patched before Whren sees that gel job and starts lecturing about ‘proper coverage.’”

  Roy groaned. “I’d rather face another Ripper.”

  “You do, and she’ll put Griever parts in a jar next to your spine,” Aaron said. “Move.”

  Roy limped off with the med team.

  Karauro realized he was just standing there in the middle of the yard, rifle hanging loose, helmet still on. No one told him where to be. No one called his name.

  He thumbed the release. The helmet hissed open, cool air hitting sweat and dust. The yard felt too bright, too loud, everything turned up except him.

  We killed it. I should feel something.

  Nothing. Just the memory of Jorrin’s half-formed face under plates and the buzzing fog behind his eyes.

  Karauro didn’t remember deciding to climb.

  His boots just carried him—up stairs, past pipes and humming power lines—until the yard below looked like a grid of ants with guns.

  He gripped the handrail on the high walkway and leaned out.

  Far below, haulers rolled in and out. Sparks leapt in the armor pit like tiny stars. Voices blended into a low, distant roar.

  Up here, the wind cut sharper and colder. The shield overhead painted faint blue along the edges of his vision. One slip, one wrong step, and he’d be a dark smear on concrete.

  Then let me die out here.

  He hadn’t meant it.

  Except some part of him had.

  If I wasn’t there, Roy wouldn’t be hurt.

  His glove flexed at his side, servos whining softly. He stared at it, remembering the impact—metal slamming claws aside, just enough.

  And still, all anyone saw was him freezing.

  A soft footstep landed behind him.

  “If you’re here to tell me I’m hogging the view, I can move,” he said without turning.

  “Nah,” Taron drawled. “Trust me, I’ve hogged this spot more than you. Good breeze. Perfect place to pretend you’re thinking about life instead of running from Whren’s scanner.”

  Karauro blinked, glancing over his shoulder.

  Taron leaned against the rail a short distance away, helmet tucked under one arm, goggles shoved into wild hair. His posture was casual; his eyes weren’t.

  “You been up here long?” Karauro asked.

  “Long enough to see you calculating bounce versus splat,” Taron said. “Pro tip: it’s mostly splat.”

  Karauro let out a small, rough sound. “Just needed quiet.”

  “Funny thing about Spine,” Taron said. “Quiet usually means someone’s thinking too loud.”

  Karauro didn’t answer.

  “Whren pinged me,” Taron added. “Said you drifted off radar with ‘that look in his eyes.’ She trusts instinct more than scanners for that kind of thing.”

  Karauro grimaced. “She watching cameras now?”

  “She watches everyone,” Taron said. “Comes with patching people back together. You learn to spot the ones planning dumb ideas.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Gonna jump?” Taron cut in. “Didn’t say you were. Just saying I’ve stared off this ledge a few times myself, thinking maybe it wouldn’t be the worst way to stop feeling like scrap someone forgot to throw away.”

  The words hit heavier than the wind.

  “And?” Karauro asked.

  “And the thing about gravity?” Taron shrugged. “It’ll still be here tomorrow. You may as well wait and see if something worthwhile shows up first.”

  Karauro huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh. “That’s your wisdom?”

  “Hey, I fix bombs, not brains. You want deep emotional insight, talk to Whren. She’ll insult you, then jam a scanner in your ear.”

  Silence settled, easier than before.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “You froze,” Taron said finally. “Roy got tagged. Nera’s pissed. All true.” He slid his gaze sideways. “Also true? You deflected those claws just enough or we’d be mopping Roy off the street.”

  Karauros throat tightened. “You saw that?”

  Taron tapped his temple. “Helmet cam. Aaron saw it. Riven probably caught it from above. You think our reports say ‘kid did nothing, we did everything’? We’re mercs, not politicians.”

  Karauros fingers loosened on the rail. “Doesn’t change that I froze.”

  “No,” Taron said. “Just means that isn’t the whole story.”

  He pushed off the railing and started toward the stairs. “If you’re gonna torture yourself, at least do it while cleaning or fixing something. Keeps Whren calmer.”

  Karauro let go of the handrail. His legs felt shaky in a different way now.

  “Hey, Taron?” he called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  Taron waved without looking back. “You can pay me by not dying stupid. That’s my only rate.”

  Roy hated sitting still.

  The regen-pod hummed around his shoulder, light pulsing as tissue knit itself. He lay there, hair pushed back messily, already forming complaints.

  The pod lid lifted with a hiss. Whren peered down, glasses catching red light.

  “You make a habit of intercepting claws with your shoulder, or was today special?” she asked.

  Roy squinted. “Sorry to disappoint you, doc, but I like to keep life interesting.”

  “Interesting almost got you spliced in half,” she said flatly. “Sit up. Slowly. I’d rather not watch you face-plant.”

  He pushed himself upright, wincing only a little. The wound was mostly gone now, just a fresh scar among old ones.

  Nera leaned against the wall by the door, arms folded, visor loose in one hand. She watched in silence.

  “Good as new?” Roy asked.

  “Good as reckless,” Whren said. “Try not to make me reprint the same damage tomorrow. I hate reruns.”

  Roy slid off the pod and rotated his shoulder carefully. “No promises. I’ll aim for new and exciting injuries.”

  Whren snorted and moved to her console.

  Roy turned toward the door—and found Nera blocking it.

  He sobered. “You gonna yell at me for jumping in, or do I get a pass ‘cause I’m fresh out of the pod?”

  She held his gaze. “You saved him,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

  Roy’s grin softened. “He’s a good kid. Just got hit with Griever brain static. I don’t blame him for freezing.”

  “Freeze at the wrong time, people die,” Nera said. “That hasn’t changed.”

  “I know.” He tilted his head. “But that’s not all that happened.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

  Roy flicked a glance at Whren—busy, but listening—then lowered his voice. “When I tackled him, he pulled with that glove. Shifted the claws just enough. If he hadn’t, I’d be a lot more ventilated.”

  “You’re sure?” Nera asked.

  “Kind of hard to miss not being sliced in half,” Roy said. “You’re mad—and yeah, he screwed up—but don’t rewrite the whole scene as him doing nothing. You trained him to move. He moved. Just… not clean.”

  Conflict flickered across her face.

  Whren slid closer, arms folded. “For someone who prides herself on observation, you’re very selective with that boy.”

  Nera’s jaw clenched. “Stay out of it, Whren.”

  “No,” Whren said. “If I stay out of it, he spirals, you implode, and Argos gets a migraine. I like my wing quiet.”

  Nera exhaled through her nose.

  Whren’s tone softened by a hair. “You pushed him hard. That’s your job. But don’t pretend he’s ballast. The way he walked in here? Those eyes were fogged. That’s not laziness. That’s someone who just lost a piece of whatever was keeping him afloat.”

  Nera looked away. “He said he’d rather die out there than—”

  “Kids say a lot of stupid things when they’re scared and angry,” Whren cut in. “You said worse, once.”

  That stopped Nera short.

  Roy watched, then gave a half-smile. “All I’m saying is—don’t write him off yet. You’d hate being wrong more than you hate being mad.”

  Nera shot him a glare that wasn’t entirely serious. “You talk too much.”

  “Somebody has to,” Roy said. “I’ll go find him before he trips over his guilt and breaks something.”

  Whren waved him away with a pen. “Out. Before I prescribe bed rest out of spite.”

  The training barracks smelled like cordite and old sweat, a stripped-down version of the field with less screaming and more rules. Empty casings littered the floor near the firing line like brass confetti.

  Karauro stood just inside the door, helmet tucked under his arm.

  Riven sat where he always did, perched on a crate, visor dark. He looked half-asleep, but the tilt of his head said otherwise.

  “Riven?” Karauro called.

  The visor pivoted. “Rat.”

  “I…” Karauro swallowed. “Can I use the range?”

  “You just came back from dancing with a Ripper,” Riven said. “Most recruits would be curled up somewhere making promises to gods they don’t believe in.”

  “I’m not most recruits,” Karauro said. “I froze. Roy got hurt. I can’t let that happen again.”

  Riven considered him, then jerked his chin toward the racks. “Pick a lane. You rack, you clean. You stop when your hands stop listening.”

  Karauro moved, checking a pistol before stepping into position. The target slid out—standard silhouette. Nothing like what waited in the ruins. His palms still dampened.

  “Same as before,” Riven said calmly. “Stance. Breathe. You don’t erase a memory by outrunning it. You overwrite it.”

  Karauro set his feet. Aligned his sights. The Ripper’s plates flashed behind his eyelids. Jorrin’s almost-face pressed against black ichor.

  His finger twitched early.

  The first shot went high.

  He cursed under his breath and fired again. This one clipped the shoulder. The next found center mass.

  Shots blurred into each other. Riven spoke only when his stance collapsed or his breathing spiked.

  “Reset.”

  “Again.”

  “Don’t chase the target. Let the sight come to you.”

  Sweat stung Karauros eye. His hands burned. The kinetic glove buzzed faintly with each recoil.

  Finally Riven spoke, quieter. “You’re pushing past your comfort zone. Good. But don’t confuse pain with progress. You still need your fingers tomorrow.”

  Karauro lowered the pistol, chest rising and falling.

  “Did Nera send you?” he asked suddenly.

  “To the range?” Riven shook his head. “No. This was your idea. She doesn’t know you’re here.”

  That hit like a strange mix of relief and sting.

  Riven took the pistol, checking the chamber. “You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re… rewiring. Some people shatter. Some bend. You’re still bending.”

  “Doesn’t feel like bending,” Karauro said. “Feels numb.”

  “Better than panic,” Riven replied. “Numb can still learn.”

  The Spine’s upper corridors were a maze of metal and shadow.

  Nera moved through them on autopilot—reports filed, suit cleaned, weapons stowed. Routine. Structure. All the things that kept people alive.

  Her head wasn’t cooperating.

  Roy’s words. Whren’s. The brief helmet-cam replay of claws glancing off Karauros kinetic field. The echo of him snarling to be left to die.

  Foolish enough to believe in a rat like you.

  She grimaced. The line sounded worse every time it looped.

  Footsteps echoed ahead. She rounded a corner just as Riven and Karauro came up from the range.

  Riven walked with his usual even stride. Karauro moved beside him, helmet clipped to his belt, hair damp with sweat, fingers red and raw.

  He didn’t see her at first.

  When their eyes finally met, something inside her stuttered.

  Before, there’d been fire in his gaze—fear, anger, stubborn spark. Now they looked dulled. Smoke over coals. Fogged, distant, like he’d just turned a part of himself off.

  He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t rush to speak.

  He simply dipped his head slightly and stepped aside to give her room, like she was just another body in another hallway.

  “Riven,” Nera said, voice level.

  “Commander,” he answered with a small nod.

  “You two been at the range?” she asked.

  “Training,” Riven said. “He asked. I obliged.”

  Karauro stayed quiet.

  “Good,” Nera replied. “Keep it up. He needs it.”

  Once, that tone would’ve earned her an eye-roll or some muttered comeback. Now he gave her nothing. Just that fogged look, then the floor.

  Roy stood far and noticed them waving his good arm over to Karauro.

  "Found him!" he shouted.

  "He found the range first," Nera replied.

  She walked past them, the moment buzzing in the air like static.

  Those eyes were fogged. That’s someone who just lost a piece of whatever kept him afloat.

  Nera clenched her fist until servos whined. Guilt sat badly under armor.

  By the time the next deployment call came down, the Spine hangar buzzed with restless energy. Talk of an outpost needing support, Griever activity near a supply line. Same ruin, new problems.

  Karauro got there early.

  He sat on a crate beside the same hauler, helmet in his lap, thumb tracing dents in the plate.

  Mercs filtered in around him—Unit Seven and others. Their voices weren’t quiet.

  “Can’t believe they’re dragging the rat out again after that freeze.”

  “If Roy hadn’t jumped, we’d be hauling two bodies instead of one core.”

  “Dead weight with a gun. Great for morale.”

  Karauro heard every word.

  He stared at the floor at first, letting it wash over the fog in his chest.

  Boots scraped in front of him. One of the mercs loomed, rifle hanging loose. “Hey, kid. You planning to stare enemies to death out there? Bullets work better.”

  Karauro lifted his head slowly.

  Their eyes met.

  He didn’t snap back. Didn’t defend himself.

  He just looked at the man—too calm, too flat. Like a still pond with no bottom.

  The merc’s smirk faltered. Fingers twitched on his strap.

  “Whatever,” he muttered, glancing away first. “Weird kid.”

  They drifted off, their laughter thinner than before.

  Karauros mouth twitched into the smallest ghost of a grin.

  Only weapon I’ve got is making people uncomfortable. Better than nothing.

  The grin died just as quickly.

  Footsteps approached—lighter, familiar.

  Roy dropped onto the crate beside him with a soft groan. “Well, I missed all the quality gossip, didn’t I?”

  “You can have my share,” Karauro said.

  “Nah. I prefer my brain cells un-poisoned.”

  Aaron joined them a moment later, clapping a hand on Karauros shoulder plate. “You ready, kid?”

  Karauro swallowed. “Doesn’t matter if I am, right? Job’s the job.”

  “Readiness isn’t feeling brave,” Aaron said. “It’s walking anyway. You walked into the range. You’re walking into this. That counts.”

  Roy leaned forward, studying him. “Hey, Rauro?”

  “What?” Karauro snarled.

  “Don’t let Nera’s words be the only ones you carve into your skull,” Roy said. “She hits hard because she cares. If she didn’t, you’d already be back out there alone.”

  Karauro looked away. “Doesn’t feel like caring.”

  “Yeah,” Roy said quietly. “It usually doesn’t. Not until later.”

  Up on the catwalk, Nera watched from the shadows, one hand on the rail. Aaron’s hand on the boy’s shoulder. Roy talking like nothing could shake him. Karauro sitting with his helmet in his lap, eyes dim but still there.

  Argos stepped up beside her, metal arm resting against the rail.

  “You planning to glare from up here forever?” he asked.

  “I’m assessing,” she said.

  “Call it what you want,” Argos replied. “Just don’t let fear of losing people turn into a habit of breaking them first.”

  “I’m not scared,” she said automatically.

  “You are,” Argos said. “We all are. Trick isn’t killing it. It’s not letting it drive the whole car.”

  He paused. “Boy’s rough. Untested. But there’s something there. Don’t grind it to dust before it has a chance to harden.”

  Nera didn’t answer.

  Below, the hauler engine roared to life. Aaron gestured for Karauro and Roy to board. Riven checked his rifle. Ilene and Maverick finished last checks. Unit Seven lining up to walk back into ruin-teeth.

  Karauro slid his helmet on. HUD flickered awake. The world narrowed to numbers and breath.

  As the ramp lifted and the hangar doors yawned open, he stole a glance back up at the catwalk.

  For a heartbeat, he saw her there—silhouette edged in blue, visor in one hand, eyes on him.

  Then the door sealed, and the ruins swallowed them again.

  The fog in his chest stayed.

  But buried under it, faint and stubborn, something else flickered.

  Not courage. Not yet.

  Just the refusal to stay frozen.

  Should Nera Apologies? Or was She right?