“There goes seven hours of my life down the fucking drain,” scoffed Kieren, his voice a snarl as he slung his duffelbag over his shoulder. They could finally see the exit doors of the dock now. Late, by colony standards. The overhead lamps had dimmed to their nighttime hue, casting everything in a muted graywash. Fewer people, more silence.

  Mateo, Wilbur, Franklin, and Ty loitered near the bathroom entrance, the scent of disinfectant and cheap synth-soap clinging to the air.

  “That was really annoying, but what can you do…” Wilbur muttered, drying his hands on his trousers without a hint of shame.

  “Gross,” Mateo wrinkled his nose. “You could’ve just used the air-dryer thing, caveman.”

  Wilbur grinned and stuck out his tongue. “Not Henryk’s fault they ‘lost’ his passport.”

  “Lost it,” Kieren repeated with a dark chuckle.

  Tyson shook his head, the movement making his thick braids sway. “Yeah. Lost it. Sure. What the hell is with the Mercurians?”

  Axel and Arthur emerged from the bathroom in stride, the collars of their coats high, boots heavy on the deck plating.

  “I thought Ed told us Mars and Mercury were in good standing,” Franklin said, glancing between them.

  Axel and Arthur shared a look, one of those long, silent exchanges only old warriors or lifelong friends could pull off.

  “It’s true,” Axel nodded. “I remember Ed bragging their president once called him directly.”

  Arthur’s reply was slower, more cautious. “Maybe the girl had something wrong with her that day. Maybe we should just let it go.”

  Mateo blinked. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  Arthur raised both arms in a helpless shrug. “I barely understand what happened, Mateo. This thing with the passport—how do words on paper hold so much power over a man’s life? Let’s get food. Let’s sleep. It's already too late for sense.”

  Inside the restroom, Henryk leaned on the sink, crumpled napkins in one hand, cold water dripping off the other. His reflection stared back—tired, hollow-eyed, a little older than he remembered.

  Ed was still drying his hands, jaw tight. “What the hell was her fucking deal?” he snapped, rubbing hard enough to burn his skin.

  Henryk groaned. “Hell if I know,” he muttered, chucking the soggy roll of paper into the trash like a basketball.

  “You think we should expect this kind of welcome from every Mercurian from here on out?” Ed asked, voice lower now, less heat, more confusion.

  Henryk shrugged, then dragged a hand down his face, like he could scrape memory loose with his fingernails.

  “Right now… Iman…” he whispered, and the image bloomed uninvited behind his eyes. Her smile, wicked and real. Her laugh, sharp as glass. That party—flashing lights, sweat-slick bodies swaying like tidewater, her grinding against him with something between hunger and revenge in her emerald stare.

  But it was a blur, wasn’t it?

  He’d been drunk. They both had. He remembered the music, the way his body reacted, how she didn’t pull away. But after that? Nothing. Just silence. Ghosts.

  What if something happened? What if he’d crossed a line he didn’t remember crossing?

  The guilt stirred in his gut like bad liquor. No answers. Just questions and that slow, creeping heat in the pit of his stomach.

  “Whatever,” he said finally, voice flat. “Because of her temper tantrum, we don’t get to see the Stargazers.”

  Ed exhaled like the words had weight. “I just don’t get what the hell her deal was. And your passport—fuck, that’s gonna be a bitch. I’ll start running the paperwork for a replacement when we’re back at the Academy.”

  Henryk rolled his eyes. “Like they’ll clear me.”

  Ed clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. This kind of crap happens. Think about how many times our transports have been shot down. There’s a reason we’ve got insurance and redundancy protocols.”

  “Yeah,” Henryk muttered. “But those were enemy attacks. This? This feels personal.”

  He didn’t say Iman’s name again. Didn’t have to. It was written in the mirror behind his eyes.

  “Alright, whatever. Can we just leave now?” Henryk muttered, dragging his fingers down the bridge of his nose like he could pinch the headache away. “I don’t need to be dealing with this Iman shit.”

  He pushed off the sink, jaw clenched, the lines on his face sharp with annoyance. He was halfway to the door when Ed’s voice caught up with him.

  “Hey… don’t you think you’re being a little too—”

  “What?” Henryk snapped, whirling. The heat in his tone was instant, unfiltered, and Ed froze, surprised by it.

  Ed exhaled, waving him off. “Nothing. Like you said, maybe this was just a one-off. Iman was in a piss-poor mood. I doubt we have to worry about it. But I’m sure she did something to your passport.”

  Henryk gave a dark chuckle, the kind that didn’t touch the eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  “You really must’ve pissed her off,” Ed added, forcing a smile, but it wilted fast under Henryk’s silence.

  Then came the words. Low, bitter.

  “I genuinely don’t remember.” Henryk’s voice was flat. Honest. “My guess? It’s because you dragged my ass away before I could say goodbye. To either of them.”

  “We had to get back to the Academy,” Ed said, softer now. “Thank god we did. With Joseph, August, and Isaac… gone or dead—I don’t even know anymore. But I didn’t think Commander Iman’s skin was that thin. A missed goodbye and she melts down like that?”

  Ed’s voice trailed off as Henryk turned and walked out. There was no arguing with him now. Not tonight.

  Ed followed him out of the bathroom with a sigh, footsteps heavy. The rest of the crew turned at the sound, but it wasn’t the kind of stare that said we heard you fighting. It was the kind that said finally. They were all tired. Hungry. Worn.

  Henryk slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, eyes scanning left to right across the nearly deserted terminal. The customs station behind them was still lit, flickering with bureaucratic apathy.

  “I’m starving,” Arthur grumbled. “I could eat a horse.”

  “Me too, big guy,” Axel added, rolling his neck. He turned to Ed. “You think we’ve got time to eat before we crash?”

  Ed shrugged. “Why not? Hell, we earned it.” He clapped Henryk on the back. “It’s Henryk’s birthday tomorrow anyway. Late or not, we might as well celebrate a little. Got a big day ahead of us.”

  Franklin and Wilbur perked up instantly.

  “Happy birthday, Henryk,” Wilbur said, nudging him.

  “Ay, happy birthday,” Franklin echoed.

  Henryk smirked, brushing it off. “Thanks.”

  “Idiots,” Mateo muttered. “It’s tomorrow. Not now.”

  “I’ll grab the rental,” Ed said, checking his watch. He turned to Axel. “You know how to drive, right?”

  Axel blinked, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You take the second car. I think Bea, Adaline, and that guy—what’s his name—should be waiting for us.”

  “Shit,” Wilbur winced. “They thought we were getting here at, like, three, right?”

  Ed paled. “Don’t remind me.”

  Henryk, now surrounded by the squires, found himself bombarded with questions about his age, jokes about how old he was getting. Arthur launched into some knightly story about sacred rites and sword-bearers on their name days. Mateo rolled his eyes and muttered sarcasm from the side.

  Kieren hung back, arms crossed, a scowl painted across his face—but even he stayed close.

  Even Ed, turning back in his stride, couldn’t hide the grin curling up the corner of his mouth. For a moment, as he looked at the young man walking beside his brothers-in-arms, Ed saw that transport ship again. That same boy with a fire in his chest and something broken in his eyes. How far he had come.

  Talent wasn’t the word. Henryk had shattered Ed’s expectations. The title of Executor was more than ceremonial—it was ancient, political, a role passed down not just through merit, but through trust. The King of House Mars didn’t appoint soldiers. He appointed brothers. Men he would bleed beside. Men he would die for.

  And one day—maybe not long from now—Henryk wouldn’t just be a candidate. He’d be the real thing. A true Knight of House Mars. Ed was certain of that now. Kieren had been the wrong bet. He knew that deep in his bones.

  “Weird girl, that Mercurian,” Axel muttered beside him, his voice low but sharp.

  Ed blinked. The words stirred him from his thoughts. He turned, raising an eyebrow.

  Axel kept walking, catching the keys Ed tossed him with one hand. His purple eyes glinted under the washed-out fluorescent lights of the terminal parking structure. “It was only Henryk’s passport that got lost. Doesn’t that seem... specific?”

  Ed exhaled. “How well do you know Commander Iman?”

  Axel gave him a flat look. “I don’t think I’ve ever met her in my life.” He crossed his arms, shoulders squared. “What are you trying to say?”

  Ed raised both hands. “Relax. I’m just thinking out loud.” He side-eyed Axel. “I made you Henryk’s mentor, didn’t I? All that knight code, war stories, sword-honor crap you’ve been feeding him… I’m just asking if Iman ever came up in conversation.”

  Axel scratched the back of his neck. “She’s his friend... I guess?” His brow furrowed. “I asked him about the girls he’s into, y’know, just trying to break the silence. He’s really into Piper. Last I heard, they were supposed to go out after her suspension ends.”

  Ed’s expression shifted. His eyes narrowed, and then slowly widened as the realization crept in. “Oh… shit,” he muttered. A hand went to his face. “I think I know exactly why.”

  Axel turned to him, confused. “What?”

  But before Ed could speak, his attention snapped forward. Three figures stood in front of a parked car near the edge of the lot. One of them turned.

  “Bea!” Ed called out, raising a hand.

  Bea looked over, her face lighting up as she waved him down. Adaline stood beside her, arms crossed, the flicker of amusement on her lips.

  The third figure stood between them. Shorter than Bea, taller than Adaline—male. As Ed and Axel approached, they could see him more clearly.

  Asian descent. Round glasses perched on a nose too large for his boyish face. A tuft of black hair doing its best to defy gravity. Blue Nikes, a plain white cotton tee, and beige slacks completed the picture.

  He was smaller than expected—but the grin on his face was almost disarming in its warmth.

  “So, you’re a real Martian, huh?” he said, stepping forward and extending a hand. “Name’s Wilson. I go to one of the universities here on the Block.”

  Ed’s smile came naturally. Wilson’s grin was the kind that could light up a damn tunnel—innocent, eager, maybe even useful.

  “So, you’re the contact Bea was hyping up,” Ed said, jabbing a thumb at Wilson. “Henryk’s gonna want to pick your brain about the prototypes.”

  Wilson’s glasses slid slightly as he blinked. “The Stargazers,” he corrected gently, nudging the frames back up his nose.

  Ed chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, the Stargazers.”

  His gaze slid past Wilson, over to Bea and Adaline. He could read their body language without trying—Adaline already half turned away, restless, Bea with that exhausted big-sister patience she wore like a scarf.

  “How’s the college search going?” Ed asked.

  Adaline made a face like she’d just bitten into something sour. “There’s, like, one school here that does anything close to what I’m into. Everything else is just… rust and metal.”

  Bea sighed, brushing a hand through her curls. “There’s culture here. Just different kinds. This place has history.”

  “Yeah. A history of smog and steel,” Adaline muttered, eyes drifting out toward the massive blue airlock down the street. “Anyway—where the hell were you guys? You said three. It’s late.”

  Bea and Wilson both turned to Ed with matching raised eyebrows.

  “Yeah, what happened?” Bea asked, crossing her arms. “You owe Wilson money for parking.”

  Wilson waved it off quickly. “No worries. Really.”

  Ed sighed. “Long story.”

  But before he could start explaining, whoops and laughter echoed behind them. He turned and saw the rest of House Mars striding in like a school of armored sharks. Loud, sweaty, alive.

  He groaned. “We’ll catch you up later. You guys eaten yet?”

  Bea tilted her head. “We had kind of a late lunch.”

  “I could eat,” Wilson added, adjusting his glasses again.

  “Perfect,” Ed said, nodding. “Henryk’s birthday in, like, two hours. We’ve got Maelia’s speech tomorrow, so I figured maybe we celebrate now. Before we’re all responsible for someone else’s life again.”

  “True that,” Adaline muttered from the shadows of her crossed arms.

  Ed scanned the lot. Two SUVs. Loaded down with enough gear to invade a small moon.

  “We got enough space?” Bea asked, eyeing the cramped trunks.

  “We’ll make it work,” Ed said, then turned to them. “Alright. Who’s driving?”

  Ten minutes later, they were rolling.

  Luggage was stacked and wedged and clamped to the SUV roof beds. Half the crew was buried under duffel bags. The other half looked like they were trying to survive reentry.

  Henryk sat in the passenger seat beside Wilson. Ed had squeezed himself behind him, and poor Mateo had been shoved like a loose bolt between them.

  The roads weren’t unlike the academy city. Layered. Old foundations propping up new ambitions. Some places gleamed with white lights and advertisements; others looked like they'd been untouched since the last war. Even this late, the city pulsed—electricity and noise spilling from bars, street vendors, karaoke booths, neon signage clinging to glass towers like vines.

  “What’s everyone in the mood for?” Wilson asked, hands relaxed on the wheel.

  “I say birthday boy picks,” Adaline called from the very back, practically balancing on a mountain of gear, knees folded to her chest.

  Henryk ran a hand through his hair, watching the blur of light and shadow pass by through the window. They were on the highway now, a spine of steel that cleaved the city in long arcs. Outside, a matching SUV trailed them—baby-blue paint, a sticker across the back windshield.

  New Baby on Board!

  He snorted.

  People were born here. Lived here. Died here.

  It was that kind of place.

  He leaned against the door, cheek pressed to glass, mind elsewhere. Somewhere far from The Block, from the tangled mess of Imperial Houses and failed friendships.

  He thought about his sisters. They could live a life here—free, clean. Maybe not perfect, but without the weight of politics and power pressed down on their chests.

  Bea, too. She wanted the same thing. Something better than the chessboard they were all born on.

  “Henryk…!” Adaline’s voice again, cutting through the drone of road noise like a thrown pebble into still water.

  “What do you want to eat?” Axel repeated, twisting in his seat.

  Henryk blinked, pulled from whatever deep place he’d drifted to. The windows framed the pulse of The Block—more people now. Bodies spilling out of bars and club doors, wrapped in laughter and neon light, moving like blood cells through veins of concrete.

  Then he saw it.

  A sign—bright, loud, the kind that didn't ask for your attention but demanded it. A wide-eyed anime bear grinned down at the road, each paw gripping a steel fork skewered with glistening meat, fish, and vegetables. A bizarre hybrid of restaurant, nightclub, and fever dream.

  Henryk pointed. “What’s that place?”

  Wilson chuckled as he leaned forward to get a better look. “Ah, that’s Bear’s Pit. BBQ joint with a cult following. Kinda pricey, but worth it.”

  Ed let out a low whistle. “We’re not hurting for cash anymore. Let’s blow a little.”

  Mateo arched an eyebrow. “Blow a little?” he repeated. “That doesn’t sound like Ed.”

  Ed grinned. “Few perks of being a lean House with deep pockets. You ever wonder why our barracks got luxury water filters and your toothbrushes are always top-shelf? We're not frugal anymore.”

  Henryk snorted. “Speak for yourself. I’m still busting my ass at Bianca’s just to afford real shampoo.”

  The car slid into a narrow parking lot beside the glowing BBQ fa?ade. Wilson cut the engine, and the artificial hum of The Block filled the silence. Then came the oddest thing—a breeze?

  Henryk paused. It wasn’t wind. Not real wind. Just the gentle push of air from one of the colony’s vents, recycled and perfumed to simulate the night.

  But it felt good.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Crisp. Almost natural. Against the programmed chill of The Block’s night cycle, it could almost fool you into thinking you were planetside.

  They piled out of the car. Doors slammed in a chorus, and the second SUV parked beside them, kicking up faux-dust that glittered in the light.

  Arthur walked like the gravity was wrong. Like every step he took was being tested for betrayal. Henryk noticed it immediately.

  “You good?” he asked.

  Arthur didn’t answer right away. His boots clacked against the metal beneath them—no soil, no crunch, no give.

  He stopped, eyes locked toward the far-off blue airlock that glowed faint in the artificial sky.

  “I told you. I’ve never been to space before,” he said. Then he tapped his heel against the ground. “This isn’t earth. There’s no soil. No scent. Just steel and plastic and false things.”

  Henryk tried not to smile. “You know, some of these colonies import real soil. From Earth. To make it feel more natural.”

  Arthur shot him a look like he’d grown horns.

  Henryk raised a hand. “I had to do a project on it. Relax.”

  Arthur’s reply was a deep sigh, thick and heavy. “There’s a reason people need to feel dirt under their feet. It grounds them. You take that away, you untether the soul.”

  Henryk rolled his shoulders. “I was born on an asteroid,” he said. “Trust me, if a kid grows up here or out in the Midworld, they’re not going to know the difference. Most of the Backwater systems? They’d kill for a Block like this.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “And what of Oceana? You remember that hellhole. This... city of yours is no different. Just cleaner.”

  Henryk tilted his head. “Not under Neptunian control, though. And there’s still a choice here. That matters.”

  Arthur crossed his arms, taking it all in. The lights. The towering apartments. The hum of cars that weren't cars. “No soul,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Techno-jungles like these... they wear masks. But where’s the heart, Sir Henryk?”

  Henryk didn’t have an answer.

  Because the truth was, Arthur wasn’t wrong. Not really.

  It was easy to forget Arthur had grown up under a sky that was real, on dirt that remembered footsteps. He hadn’t seen a car, much less a Warcasket.

  Yet then—screaming.

  Not panic. Not war. Not drills or sudden alerts. The kind of screaming that came from neon-lit balconies and cheap vodka-fueled laughter. Across the street, from a second or third floor unit of a towering apartment complex, a swarm of drunk party girls—white girls—shouted into the night like it belonged to them.

  They were throwing a rager. Probably some birthday or college victory or no reason at all. Every syllable was laughter, every breath a giggle, like their throats were carbonated. A siren chorus of chaos, slicing through the chill block air.

  And somehow, through the pulsing light and thick hum of the city, their gazes found Arthur.

  Arthur: bald, dark-skinned, and built like the kind of man history books called warlords. Nearly seven feet tall with the kind of Martian enhancements that made him look carved from something older than stone. His clothes were simple—trousers and a feudal-style shirt—but that only made him look more ancient. More dangerous.

  That’s when it started.

  Catcalls. Screeches. Whistles.

  One of the girls, eyes glassy and wild, pulled her top down and bared her chest at him. Her friends screamed and followed suit. It wasn’t sexy. It was primal. Apocalyptic in its enthusiasm.

  Arthur's grin was immediate and disbelieving. “God, I love this fucking place!” he roared, thumping his chest. “Western girls are great!”

  Henryk clamped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, somewhere between laughing and recoiling, patting him like one might a dog too excited at a dinner table. “Come on, come on—Wilbur found a booth!”

  “Booth!” Wilbur yelled from the doorway, holding it open like it was the Ark and the flood was coming.

  Arthur hesitated at the threshold, his eyes still on the topless shrine across the street. “You think they’ll still be there later?”

  Henryk smirked. “Hopefully, big guy. It’s my birthday too.”

  Arthur let out a rumbling laugh. “They’d love you. You look like one of those sad boy musicians they all pretend to hate.”

  Henryk gave him a shove and they passed through the doors.

  The restaurant hit them with noise and heat and bodies. Tables packed. Grills sizzling. Conversations folding over each other like waves on a beach made of beer and meat. Henryk didn’t realize how much he missed being part of something. Being loud. Being seen.

  The hostess led them to a booth tucked in the back corner. A big one. It felt like they belonged here.

  Arthur slid in at the far end, still beaming, landing between Henryk and Ed like a mountain between valleys. Across from them sat Axel, the squires, and the rest of the motley Martian crew.

  “What are these little contraptions?” Arthur asked, gesturing at the grill embedded in the center of the table like it was alien tech.

  “They’re grills,” Wilson explained, sliding into the seat beside Mateo. “We order meat. It comes raw. We cook it ourselves. Simple. Communal.”

  “Oh hell yeah,” Mateo groaned as he opened the menu like it was sacred scripture. “They’ve got Wagyu. Actual Wagyu. Like real shit.”

  Ed grinned as he reached for the drink menu. “Get whatever. It’s the birthday of our Lead Executor. We don’t celebrate enough.”

  Kieren’s jaw twitched. His eyes narrowed slightly. He said nothing, but his breath quickened. That title should’ve been his. He had won the duel.

  Henryk felt it. Not the look, but the weight of it. The silent heat. It didn’t bother him. Not anymore.

  Arthur ruffled Henryk’s hair as the waitress approached. She was average height, pale, thick around the hips in a way that reminded Henryk vaguely of Mags. But her hair was jet black, and it fell in waves that shimmered like Iman’s when she hadn’t tied it up.

  “Hey there,” she said, her voice bright, casual. “Name’s Maisy. I’ll be your server tonight. Any appetizers? Drinks? How can I get you guys started?”

  Arthur leaned over Henryk, practically shoving him into the table with one thick arm. “This guy’s birthday!” he boomed. “Can you believe that? Treat him like a damn king!”

  Maisy’s smile widened, professional but not without its warmth.

  Ed, ever the diplomat, gave a small wave. “Apologies. We’re not used to being off-duty.”

  Maisy chuckled. “You’re fine. You want menus or should we start with some sake and beer towers?”

  “Relax, Edward. This man here saved my life,” Arthur declared, the boisterous pride in his voice impossible to miss. “You’ll have a drink with me, Squire Henryk.”

  “Squire?” Maisy—the waitress—raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement. A hand cocked at her hip, her voice teasing and curious. “Like, medieval times?”

  The entire table stilled for a heartbeat, caught between laughter and silence.

  Arthur straightened his back, voice rich with that performative chivalry he wore like armor. “Yes. A tale from another world entirely.” He slammed a massive palm across Henryk’s back so hard it nearly knocked the air from him. Henryk barely flinched, but the jolt rocked through his ribs.

  If this was Arthur sober, Henryk didn’t want to find out what a few drinks would unleash.

  “You guys are a riot,” Maisy grinned. “Alright then, how can I get this knightly order started? Appetizers? Drinks?”

  Axel leaned over, eyes scanning the menu. “Damn… you’ve even got feudal world ale on here. What’s your pick, big guy?”

  Arthur’s smirk widened. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

  He turned to Henryk. “So, what are we drinking, brother?”

  The lights were bright, the noise louder, and the air in the restaurant shimmered with oil and heat. Henryk let the pulse of the place carry him, the music pounding in his ears like a second heartbeat. Waiters zigzagged around the tables with military precision. It all felt like some strange parade of celebration and hunger.

  Henryk gave a crooked smile, brushing his fingers through his hair. “Hell if I know. This is my first time.”

  Somewhere in the noise, a melody drifted over the speaker system. Familiar. Something he'd heard before.

  Maisy nodded, hands working quickly. “For those who are legal, I’ll need proper ID.”

  “Done,” Ed said, flipping open a leather folio and digging through their credentials.

  Henryk felt a bead of sweat break along his brow. “Hey, what about my passport? That’s still missing—will this screw me?”

  Arthur’s chair scraped harshly as he jerked forward. “Fuck. That’s right. That’s bullshit.”

  “Easy,” Ed murmured, fishing out Henryk’s Academy ID. “It’s got the birth date. Should work.”

  Maisy scrutinized it for a moment, her eyes darting between the plastic card and Henryk’s flushed face. Then she smiled.

  “Ale all around.”

  The table exploded with whoops and cheers. And like that, they weren’t students or soldiers or survivors anymore—they were just drunk kids on leave.

  Henryk had only ever drunk three times in his life.

  The first time, he was thirteen. Christmas Eve. His stepfather had handed him a sip of whiskey, laughing, forgetting Henryk had a game that day. It had scorched his throat and left him coughing for minutes. His stepfather had apologized. Promised they’d share a real drink when Henryk was older.

  That drink never came. His stepfather died the next year.

  The second time? After Oceana. After the shitshow. That night… Marcus. That night… Iman. He remembered the park. The music. That drink that tasted like fruit punch and danger. Something so sweet it felt innocent, like childhood, but it burned slow and bitter in the gut.

  Maybe that was the night he first really met Iman. Maybe something happened. Maybe not. But there was a blank spot in his memory like a black hole. He knew he had smiled at her. Knew they’d walked close. Knew Marcus had disappeared halfway through. But the rest? Lost in fog.

  Was it not saying goodbye that hurt her? Or was there something more?

  “Ay, Henryk,” Wilson said again, voice laced with the blur of alcohol.

  Around them, the table had fragmented into little conversations. Adaline, Beatrice, and Mateo were giggling over something only they understood. Kieren sulked in silence. Franklin and Wilbur were lost in their own rhythm. Arthur and Axel were talking battles, laughing like warriors sharing scars.

  Henryk blinked, red-cheeked and dazed. Maisy Lee had vanished back into the restaurant’s bustle. Instinctively, he scanned the floor, as if he’d forgotten he wanted to say something to her.

  “H-Henryk…” Wilson’s voice was slurred but earnest, his cheeks flushed with drink, eyes blinking like a modem trying to reboot. “Did Bea tell you about the machine show?”

  Henryk blinked. “Machine show?”

  That pulled Bea’s attention. She looked up from her glass, the pale pink in her cheeks giving her away. Her voice cut through the table’s din with practiced ease. “The universities around here organize Mobile Suit tournaments. Think of it like a local circuit—smaller scale than the Academy, but the same bones.”

  Wilson nodded, eyes glittering behind his glasses. “We don’t duel to the death or anything crazy like that. No explosives in the chest cores. It’s more of a circuit fight system. Style, strategy, showmanship. Winning streaks bring in sponsorships. Hell, a couple of these guys made millions.”

  Henryk took a long, thoughtful sip from his drink. The sweetness of the mix masked the burn, but not entirely. “And you want to roll out one of the Stargazers for this?”

  Wilson gave a lazy smile, but there was steel underneath it. “The 01 model. It’s the one we’ve been tuning the longest. The 02’s still under lock at the dockside hangar.”

  Their talk was interrupted as Maisy Lee returned with plates balanced on both arms like a dancer performing a routine. She slid down appetizers: sushi wrapped in sizzling seared steak, rice puffed and steaming, and bright green leaves that shimmered with oil and spice.

  Arthur leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Ah, what are these little creatures?”

  Wilbur picked up the chopsticks, fumbled them like he was trying to crack a safe, then shrugged and stabbed a piece with a fork before shoveling it into his mouth.

  “Gross,” muttered Mateo, arms crossed, his own chopsticks maneuvering with the poise of a seasoned knife fighter. He popped a piece into his mouth with smug satisfaction and closed his eyes like he was savoring a private revelation.

  Henryk took his time, chewing thoughtfully. “Shit. This is actually really good.”

  Bea let out a breath, relaxed, smiling faintly. “It’s a little show and tell. You owe him, remember?”

  Henryk rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a point. I just didn’t think we’d be this far along already.”

  Wilson leaned in, his tone shifting serious. “We’ve still got issues, yeah. But structurally? It’s all there. The transformation systems are stable. Generators are holding steady.”

  “They hold,” Bea cut in, her voice sharper. “But only for now. Like I said, the dual engines can handle transformation… in theory. No field stress testing yet.”

  Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, then muttered, “They leak.”

  Henryk raised an eyebrow. “Leak?”

  “Power,” Wilson clarified. “Not all the time. But if you push them too hard, run all subsystems at once, start bouncing back and forth between Stargazer and Warcasket modes…”

  “You’ll cook the battery and overheat the flux lines,” Bea finished for him. “Maybe worse. Could destabilize the neural feedback net.”

  A new voice broke in. Axel, seated across from them, eyes glinting. “We’re talking about Henryk’s new suits?”

  Wilson sat up straighter, excitement bleeding through his words. He raised two fingers. “Two core configurations. Stargazer Mode and Warcasket Mode. Both run on Martian Core Generators. That means full compatibility with laser, beam, and plasma weapons.”

  Axel let out a low whistle.

  “Woah, you guys really did put the pedal to the metal for this,” Henryk muttered, a half-laugh trailing out of him as he leaned back into his chair, swirling the drink in his hand like it was some kind of answer.

  Kieren sneered, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. “Fucking prick,” he muttered, low enough it bled into the table’s noise. His fingers dug into the handle of his steak knife like it owed him money. Another second, and the blade might’ve snapped or his palm might’ve bled.

  Franklin clapped a hand on Kieren’s shoulder. “Gotta take a quick piss. Mind scootin’?”

  Kieren gave no words. Just moved. Franklin nodded, rolled his eyes, and slipped off toward the neon blur of the restrooms, vanishing into the ocean of warmth, smoke, and laughter.

  The food arrived next. Or rather, the raw promise of it.

  Arthur stared at the thick wooden board like it had insulted his bloodline. “It’s just… raw meat?” he said, tone flat, skeptical.

  Stacked high were deep-red cuts of A5 wagyu, glistening strips of ribeye, fatty marbled slices that looked like they bled money. The board steamed faintly from how fresh it was, the meat nearly trembling in the open air.

  “You cook it yourself,” Ed said. He already had the tongs in hand like a battlefield medic. “Here. Watch.”

  He slapped a strip of meat onto the grill and it hissed to life, sizzling like it was screaming in delight. Seasoned smoke curled up and wrapped around their nostrils like a summoning spell. Maisy Lee lingered nearby, amused, arms crossed and smirking like she’d seen this show before.

  Ed flipped the strip, let it char on the other side. “Easy.”

  Wilson turned to Henryk, his voice dropping into something more reverent. “It’s creative work, what you did. People have been trying to crack transformable Warcaskets for decades. You might’ve built the next step beyond Mobile Armors.”

  Henryk let out a soft laugh, somewhere between proud and drunk. “Yeah… figured it’d save my ass more than once.” He swirled his cup again and hiccuped. “And hey, you know what they say. House Mars? Undefeated.”

  “Damn right.” Wilson downed his drink and Henryk followed suit, but this time he had to brace himself against the table. The room swam.

  Wilson laughed. “Don’t drink often?”

  Henryk sighed, mouth dry. “Not a lot of time to.”

  “I figured the Academy would be a nonstop party.” Wilson poured them both another round from the ornate medieval-looking pitcher, a thing that looked more fantasy than functional. “This shit’s smoother than anything I’ve had. Usually the frats just peddle gut poison.”

  “It should be,” Maisy said dryly, her smile polite but sharp. “That bottle alone’s 250.”

  Wilson gave a wheezy laugh but Arthur, chewing loudly, sat upright as the meat hit his soul. “Edward, tip this woman in gold. In gold, damn you.”

  Ed raised his drink. “You heard the man.”

  Maisy smirked. “The Academy. The school so elite it doesn’t even need a name.”

  Ed didn’t smile. He just raised his glass. “Greatest in the galaxy.” The words came out hollow, like a prayer whispered into a broken church pew.

  She left them to the food, but Arthur’s brows furrowed. “So I have to cook all of this?”

  Axel tilted his head. “Come on, man…”

  “If I’m paying,” Arthur said seriously, “I shouldn’t be acting like a servant. Isn’t this beneath us? We’re Knights.”

  “You’re so dramatic,” Ed said, already grilling more meat.

  “Whatever, big guy. I’ll do the cooking,” Axel chuckled, draining his ale.

  Arthur crossed his arms but didn’t argue further. Axel placed a couple pork strips down with a practiced ease. Across the table, everyone was manning their own grills—Wilson, Henryk, the squires—laughing, talking over each other, toasting with greasy fingers and half-cooked meat.

  Axel handed Arthur a seared cut, still sizzling. Arthur stuffed it whole into his mouth, chewed despite the heat, nearly burning his tongue off. Smoke nearly came out of his nose.

  He still smiled.

  “…but that Sharkfin,” Bea said, voice steady, eyes gleaming with pride. Wilson and Henryk both turned to her. Adaline, seated beside Bea, leaned in with her hands clasped beneath her chin.

  “That was the missing key,” Bea continued. “Being able to fold it between Warcasket and Stargazer forms gives it increased propulsion, more maneuverability. And we saved a ton of space on the frame—space we would’ve wasted on boosters. It’s a test type, sure, but when we hit 1.0…”

  She exhaled softly, like the future had just brushed her lips.

  “I don’t know what this universe is going to look like.”

  Henryk blinked. Something about the certainty in her voice chilled him. He looked between her and Wilson, both of them lit with a kind of mad, tired brilliance.

  “W-what do you mean?” he asked, quietly.

  Wilson gave Bea a look. “Henryk… we already registered the Stargazer under your name. You’re the pilot. The blueprint. We might be the mechanics, but you’re the proof of concept.”

  Henryk’s eyes widened.

  “We’ll take designer credit,” Wilson added, with a smirk. “But it’s yours. Legally. Unless you’re the type of bastard who’d screw us.”

  Henryk laughed—dry, tired. “You really think this thing could change everything?”

  Bea shrugged, but there was a gravity to her words. “It won’t change the galaxy overnight. But it’ll change how war looks. Like when Mobile Armors became obsolete. This isn’t evolution. It’s divergence.”

  Wilson grinned, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “And lucky me, I’ve got the prototype that’s gonna be the talk of this city. You think jocks and pilots were hot before? Wait until I fly the 01. I’m gonna be rich and surrounded by women. Probably men too.”

  Henryk snorted, but his laugh was cut short by Franklin rounding the corner.

  “Hey!” Franklin waved, a grin spreading across his face.

  Everyone turned. On the far side of the restaurant, heads were starting to lift. A girl stood, peeking over the booth. “Oh my god, I didn’t realize you were sitting so close,” she said, her voice musical with amusement.

  Henryk sat upright. He recognized that tone. Familiar.

  “If we’d met earlier,” Franklin said, a touch of color warming his cheeks, “we might’ve pushed the tables together.”

  The girl giggled, and even Mateo gave Franklin a look like how the hell did that work?

  “Maybe we should’ve,” said another voice—deeper, faintly accented.

  Henryk’s blood cooled.

  Ivan.

  They were in black from head to toe. Suits like razors. They looked like diplomats, or undertakers. No smiles on any of their faces.

  Yuuri was with them, white-haired, unreadable. His pale eyes locked with Henryk’s. A second later, Ivan’s gaze met Ed’s.

  “I see you’re having a celebration,” Ivan said, voice smooth, a little too casual.

  The air shifted. The table’s heat and chatter died. In its place came a stillness, tense and sharp, like the second before a firefight.

  Then Henryk felt it. A familiar pressure, threading its way up the back of his skull. He turned, instinctively, like something primal was whispering through his spine.

  Mag’s.

  Mag’s stood there. Black polo, black leggings. All black, like Ivan and the rest of the Saturn crew. Uniform not in name but in spirit. Clean lines. Silent eyes.

  Henryk stared at her. He hadn’t seen her since the mess halls. Since they were nobodies trying to become someone. Since Jose.

  Ivan. Yuri. Carmen. And a few others he didn’t know—blonde girl with forest green eyes, a guy with bookish glasses and hair like spilled ink, another young man of Eastern Asian descent who kept glancing toward the door like he’d rather be anywhere else.

  “It’s good ole Henryk’s birthday…” Kieren slurred from their table, lifting his glass with a loose grin.

  Carmen laughed like she didn’t care who heard it. Too loud. Too knowing.

  “Nineteen?” Ivan asked, cocking his head like a vulture pretending to be a friend.

  Henryk’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  Ivan snorted. “Huh.”

  Was it a joke? A jab? Or just Ivan being Ivan—always a beat off from normal human conversation, always three moves into some other game.

  Then, from Mag’s side, the boy with the glasses elbowed her—not playfully. “Isn’t that your freak rapist friend? Maybe you should go talk to him.”

  Mag’s didn’t look at the boy. Her sneer was instinctive, bitter. She rubbed her elbow where he’d shoved her. “...H-hey, Henryk. Happy birthday.”

  Her voice tried to sound neutral. It didn’t land. It was cracked and distant. Like it didn’t know what it wanted to be.

  Henryk just stared. And for a moment, neither of them spoke. Not really. Just stood inside the silence where old guilt lived.

  The memory hit like smoke in the lungs. The mess hall. That week when every cadet had to pick a House. Jose, bright-eyed. The glue between them all. Henryk had liked him. Had respected him. Had followed him. Then killed him.

  A flash of fire. Screams. The sick smell of flesh and fuel. And here he was now—eating A5 wagyu like he hadn’t pushed through the boy’s burnt corpse just to stay alive.

  Mag’s wrapped her arms around herself, eyes lowering. “W-we really did become part of the game of Houses, didn’t we?”

  Henryk blinked. Something about her voice made his skin crawl. Soft, like a memory. Soft, like a threat. He kept his tone cold. Crisp. Practiced.

  “I’m glad we both found high positions in the Houses we serve,” he said, formal and hollow as a grave.

  Yuri started laughing, wild and joyless like something out of a madhouse.

  Carmen rolled her eyes. “Fucking dramatic pussies,” she muttered, already turning away. “Ivan, I’m going to wait in the car.”

  Ivan didn’t respond to her. His eyes stayed on Edward.

  “It’s always good to see friendly faces outside the Academy,” Ed said, calm but coiled.

  “Likewise,” Ivan replied, his smile paper-thin. “Take care. These political gatherings... they can get rowdy.”

  Edward gave a smirk that wasn’t a smirk. “Trust me. Us Martians? We stay packed and ready.”

  That did it. Ivan chuckled once. A dark little sound. Then the Saturn kids funneled out, like a slow-moving storm dissipating.

  Except Mag’s. She lingered.

  One hand gripped the opposite elbow. Her eyes didn’t meet his. For a second, Henryk thought she might step forward. Reach out. Say something that mattered.

  She didn’t.

  Then the lights dimmed.

  “It’s a happy birthday, have a happy birthday!” sang Maisy-Lee and the remaining waitstaff, their voices high and warm and just a little too bright.

  The restaurant had emptied out, save for the late-night crowd—drunks, lovers, soldiers between shifts. The clapping started from the booth. Even Kieren, wasted and woozy, clapped along, grinning like nothing had ever gone wrong in the world.

  And there it was.

  A chocolate cake the size of his forearm, glossy with fudge, rich and glistening, looking like it had been sculpted out of molten oreos. The candles flickered with fat yellow flame.

  They were all singing happy birthday, clapping, chanting his name. The lights had dimmed low and soft like a memory, and the flicker of the candles shimmered along the chocolate cake's glossy, molten surface. It oozed with fudge like a wound.

  And then Henryk heard it. That tune.

  A pulsing, synthesized beat. Familiar. Too familiar.

  “Holy crap… this is my song… it's my fucking song!” Henryk howled, grabbing the booth cushion with both fists like it might carry him off. He stood, and every eye turned toward him.

  “What a fucking birthday!” Wilbur cheered.

  Henryk twisted, staggered, and blew out his candles in one mighty breath. “Fuck yeah. Fuck the academy, fuck the Venusians, fuck the Neptunians—fuck them all!” His voice cracked like gunfire across the restaurant. The tables fell into silence. The air tightened.

  His breath stank of liquor and belligerence, sweat shining down his brow.

  “Glory to the Sons of Mars!” he roared, sloshing the medieval pitcher and pouring himself another ale, spilling half across the table.

  Arthur whooped, pounding his fists on the wood.

  Maisy Lee stepped in, flinching as if ducking cannonfire. “P-please, guys, I know it’s a party but—let’s settle, settle…”

  But Henryk wasn’t done.

  “Even the Mercurians or the Earthians don't hold a candle to our innovation,” he slurred, his voice stained with pride and something darker. Bea and Adaline stiffened, their smiles cracking. Wilson’s eyes sank behind his glass, unreadable.

  “Even shamed… even destroyed… I am… an Executor. One day, I’ll wield power with a world in each fist. And that… that’s thanks to the Martians. Glory and Honor for House Mars!”

  Arthur slammed his palm against the table. “Now that’s a birthday speech!”

  Axel reached across and tugged Arthur by the shoulder. “Chill, big guy. You’re gonna knock the whole damn table over.”

  The night faded into the warm haze of meat smoke and dim light. They ate, joked, and Henryk’s speech eventually faded away. Until they all were full and left the store. Maisy waving them with the widest smiles as she flicked through the massive tip Ed had given her.

  Maisy smirked. “Guess they weren’t lying after all.”

  Outside, the air was biting and artificial. Ed leaned against the car, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m wiped. I don’t know how the hell we still have to be up for Maelia’s speech tomorrow.”

  “You’re the one that pushed this dinner,” muttered Mateo.

  Kieren glared at Henryk, arms crossed. “You’re nineteen and acting like you’re thirty-five on a bender,” he said. “Some of us can’t even drink yet.”

  Arthur stumbled next to Henryk, nearly tripping over the curb. “You think the princesses are still out there?” he asked, eyes wild.

  Henryk swayed, grinning like a lunatic. “Hell yeah they are. It’s my birthday, remember?”

  Ed looked toward the complex across the street. “We should call it. You’re both drunk as hell.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on them,” Axel said, a bit too fast. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I’ll stay sober. Promise.”

  They crossed, Henryk and Arthur leading the charge, both unsteady, both laughing.

  And sure enough—there they were.

  The same girls on the balcony. The same laughter. One of them spotted them, then nudged her friend. The rest turned, smiled, waved them over.

  Arthur puffed his chest like a knight entering court. “You seeing this?” he whispered, and Henryk chuckled.

  “More titties in my face tonight than on PornHub,” he said, staggering.

  Axel rolled his eyes but followed.

  The girls waved the three inside. Axel hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the threshold like he was reaching into another world. But Arthur was already shoulder-deep in the embrace of the moment, and Henryk—Henryk was laughing, nearly crying, face flushed with joy and bourbon.

  That night, Arthur got a kiss. Henryk lost count of the breasts that flashed at him. And when the laughter finally lulled and the room went dim and slow, Henryk lay on the couch, shoes kicked off, heart full.

  He’d never had many birthdays. Most years, it passed like any other day. Cold, uneventful.

  But this one?

  This one was different.

  The best birthday he ever had.

  Maybe the best day of his life.

  Sad part was…

  Tomorrow, he would die.