Major Corbin of the Draconian Imperium's 32nd Armored Division carried his anger like iron under the skin. His eyes clamped on the horizon, brows knotted, lips pressed flat, every line of his face betraying what his discipline tried to bury. Orders were plain: abandon the chase, move to the camp, and make sure nothing living crawled out.

  When his column reached the site, there was little left to finish. The barracks had collapsed in on themselves, their timbers reduced to stumps. Chain-link fences sagged, their wire fused into slag. The riot had not broken—it had been driven into a final, clean detonation. Corbin stepped through the wreckage: carbines warped into metal knots, prisoners and guards fused in a common ash. At the far perimeter lay the bodies of women, lined up and shot before the flames. The scene explained itself. Desperation had struck the match.

  He gave the order to burn the rest. The dispatch he would file required only three sentences. Nothing more. Nothing true.

  Ten hours later, deep underground, a wave of raw, irrepressible cheers erupted through the tunnel.

  Meadow clung to Jack's neck, weeping freely into his tunic. A hot, lithe body pressed firmly against his back, and a pair of arms, soft as silk but strong as steel cables, wrapped around his neck from behind. It was Nya.

  Jack felt his blood pressure skyrocket. He quickly disentangled himself from both women, stumbling back a step. The thought of what Nova would do to him if she ever found out sent a jolt of pure terror through him. His prized "tool" would be forfeit.

  He immediately adopted the expression of a suffering martyr resisting the temptations of the flesh. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together in a gesture of pained prayer, and put on a look of pious agony, as if to say, "Oh, deliver me from this sweet, sweet sin!"

  Seeing his lewd, theatrical piety, Meadow and Nya couldn't help but laugh.

  The tunnel was hot, cramped, and smelled of sweat, oil, and damp soil. As the initial euphoria of survival faded, it was replaced by the gnawing fear of the unknown. The mood grew tense again.

  Jack was leaning against the rough-hewn wall, studying the next section of their route, when Nya approached and handed him a canteen. Her eyes were no longer sharp with simple anger or gratitude—they carried something heavier.

  "I still don't understand," she said, her voice low. "I checked the playback from the wreck. The blast pattern wasn't random. It was clean. Deliberate. That wasn't a riot."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Jack drank, not meeting her gaze. "I'm just a lucky fat guy."

  Her tone hardened. "Luck doesn't cut patterns like that. I'm a pilot. My life rides on the math of thrust and drag, every second. You—" she jabbed a finger toward his chest "—you are an unknown variable, the kind that kills squadrons. Out there, an unknown gets you buried. And we've staked our lives on you. So strip it bare. No tricks, no shrugging. Show us how the magician works."

  She flicked a glance toward Meadow, who was bandaging a soldier nearby, then locked eyes with Jack again. The words carried no anger now, only demand—the demand of someone who has run out of room for uncertainty.

  Jack looked into her gaze and knew there was no escape. He sighed and began to explain the simple plan involving the remote-controlled devices.

  But he only told half the story. He left out the crucial parts—how he'd used his knowledge of psychology and battlefield behavior to predict and manipulate the Imperials' every move.

  Nya listened patiently, her expression unreadable. When he finished, she just shook her head.

  "Not good enough," she said. "That's what. I need the how. I need to know… what the hell is going on inside that head of yours."

  She cornered him against the wall, her body blocking his only escape. Meadow had approached, standing quietly to the side, her expression not one of accusation, but of a deep, sorrowful need to understand. She saw the trauma behind Jack's eyes and sought to reach it in her own way.

  "The final secret, Jack." Nya's tone grew serious, her proximity overwhelming. "Why did you stay? You could have left with Rashid. You're terrified of dying. So why?"

  The question, so direct and honest, bypassed all of Jack's defenses. He looked at these two women, their eyes not filled with lust, but with a deep, desperate need to understand him. For the first time, he let the mask fall.

  "Because…" he began, his voice cracking. "Because I was tired. Tired of running. Tired of watching people like you die while I hid in the mud like a coward. Back there… in that camp… I just felt that… if I ran one more time, I wouldn't be a man anymore. I'd just be a maggot for the rest of my life."

  The tunnel was silent. Nya stepped back slightly, her sharp eyes softening. She was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time—the lonely, terrified soul hiding inside.

  Jack leaned back against the stone wall. His palms were damp, though the air was cold. The roar of the camp still clung to him—the hollow clang of a bulkhead giving way, the stink of burned cloth and oil lodged in his lungs. He had carried that noise into the dark with him, and now it sat heavy in his chest.

  Nya lowered herself beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. She didn't speak. The sharp edge in her eyes had dulled into something wearier, older. Meadow settled on his other side, resting her head against his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her breathing was uneven, catching now and then like a child holding back a sob.

  None of them moved for a long time. The tunnel smelled of damp earth and machine grease. Somewhere deeper, a drop of water fell, regular as a metronome. Jack's body was stiff, but the weight of their warmth on both sides kept him from sliding apart inside.

  He did not reach for them; they did not reach for him. It was enough to lean together, to trade silence for silence. Their closeness was not desire but the stubborn instinct to press flesh against flesh, to prove they were still warm, still here. In the dark, survivors clung to whatever pulse was left.

  Jack closed his eyes. The ache in his chest loosened, not from courage, not from faith—only from the simple fact that he wasn't alone in the dirt.