Voidwalker Requiem

Chapter 11: Shattered Ties

In the dim lighting of Ditto's hideout, the crew sat scattered in the cramped room, each one wrapped in silence. They weren't new to loss, nor to death, but Asulan's absence hung in the air like the stench of rot. His gear was piled in a corner, untouched, as though his spectre might walk through the door any moment to reclaim it. Ditto paced, her head lowered, glancing occasionally at his abandoned things with hollow, haunted eyes.

Eve broke the silence first. Her voice was steady, clinical, her gaze cold. "Asulan knew the risks. We all did. It's time to move on."

The room bristled at her words. Hana's hand clenched on his knee, his face half-hidden by shadows, but his eyes burned with silent anger. He glanced at Ditto, who met his gaze, her usual sly smile wiped clean by grief.

"Is that it, then?" Ditto shot back, her voice hard. "You expect us to just...forget?"

Eve's expression was unyielding. "I expect you to remember what we're here for. If we get caught up in every loss, we won't survive the next mission."

Antaris's chair scraped as he stood, every muscle tense. "Just another body to you, huh."

She didn't flinch. "Yes."

The air crackled, and Ditto's hands trembled at her sides. Antaris looked away, disgusted. Hana felt something brittle snap inside him, an unbearable ache filling his chest. His loyalty to Eve, already threadbare, stretched thinner.

"People aren't disposable, Eve," Ditto whispered.

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Eve returned coldly. Her gaze settled on Ditto, cutting, as if daring her to say more.

Ditto held her ground, but her silence screamed louder than words. Hana watched her retreat to a corner, slumping against the wall, fury mixed with something close to despair flashing across her face. He wanted to speak up, to say something—anything—but Eve's eyes flicked to him, and he froze.

Hana lay awake in his quarters, his mind replaying Asulan's death like a reel on loop. He could still hear the sound of Asulan's laboured breaths, the image of his hand slipping from his own burned into memory. Eve had been there too, hadn't she? Cold, detached, moving on without a second glance. The poison might have left Hana's veins, but her voice, her presence—they were worse than any toxin.

She appeared in his doorway, her slim silhouette illuminated by the dim hallway light.

"Hana." Her voice was soft, almost tender.

He looked up, startled. Her presence was a snare; he felt it in his bones. She drifted closer, her hand ghosting along his arm, fingers cool as ice.

"I need you, Hana," she murmured. "You're one of the few I can rely on."

His throat closed, and he averted his gaze, but she was persistent, tilting his chin to look at her.

"Stay with me. You and I, we're the same," she said, her voice soothing, her touch hypnotic. She traced his cheek softly, the brush of her fingers lingering, motherly yet...something else. "You're the only one who truly understands this life. You're the only one I can trust to keep moving forward."

Hana wanted to pull away, to shout at her, but his voice died in his throat. He nodded, her presence a prison he could not escape.

The tension hung thick as they gathered in the hideout's briefing room the following day. Ditto held a data pad, her fingers drumming restlessly. She glanced at Hana, her eyes clouded with exhaustion.

"This one's simple," Ditto said, but the unspoken memory of Asulan tainted her voice. "Target's low-profile, supposedly. Should be easy."

The brief nods around the table felt hollow. They all knew nothing about this life was "easy" anymore.